Death of a Bachelor
by Sevanadium
Summary: Arthur loved Francis so much that it hurt. Even more so when Death decided it was time to rip him away at the untimely age of twenty-six. But of course Francis wouldn't leave Arthur to mourn in peace, now would he? Human AU, major character death. Updates on Fridays. Thanks to ask-aph-FrUk for giving me permission to use her Death of a Bachelor AU!
1. Chapter 1

Nothing could explain the complete and utter, all-encompassing loss that Arthur felt at that exact moment. On this exact day, the day he and Francis had planned for months, Arthur should have stood in the exact same suit he stood in now, with the exact same tears welling up in his eyes.

Though the tears were supposed to be of happiness, not this — this nothingness that Arthur felt. His shoulders tensed and his elbows dug stiffly into his sides as he stared downwards. Today was supposed to be his wedding day, not Francis' funeral.

Arthur swallowed and the lump at the back of his throat didn't budge one bit. His stomach twisted and turned. If Arthur didn't pull his mind off of what happened around him, he would most likely have to run to the nearest bathroom and empty his stomach of its contents. His stomach did have a tendency to hold a coup against him whenever he felt stressed, upset, or any other range of intense emotion.

Oh God, and he still had to cancel their suite at the expensive hotel downtown. The expensive _honeymoon_ suite. Tears burned his eyes and he blinked to try to force them away. He wiped at the corner of his eye angrily with his sleeve. They were already red and swollen from him running through the exact same motion many times throughout that day.

He twisted his lips into a smile with much difficulty, and Arthur knew he looked more mocking than sincere as he bared his teeth and clutched the handful of dirt hard enough to compact it into a muddy ball. His arm didn't want to co-operate as he forced it to extend stiffly over the gaping hole that held Francis' coffin.

Eons passed and his fingers slowly extended and the dirt suddenly dropped downwards. He easily saw the glimmer of the polished wood as it gaily reflected the morning sun. Trust English weather to belie his emotions.

Dirt caked his palms and his nails had managed to gather dirt under them as well, but Arthur paid little attention to this, opting instead to drop the aforementioned hand and whisper sullenly to the dark hole before him.

"I love you, Francis."

He did not say it often to Francis when he had been alive, preferring to show his devotion in more subtle ways. Usually, he made that Francis woke up with a cup of coffee in the morning, but that was more because Arthur didn't want to have to suffer under a very grumpy Frenchman's ire. Often, texted Francis and ask about some or other thing as a way of asking 'Are you okay?' without actually using the words themselves. Sometimes, he would even attempt to make breakfast, though that rarely turned out well. Still, Francis ate what he had made before jetting off to work.

Arthur was lucky in that regard. Francis was — had been — the manager of a new restaurant that had opened up a short way away from their home. Naturally, Arthur did not know, nor did he care, about what was going to happen to Francis' workplace.

While Francis had slaved away at the restaurant, the amount of effort he put into the damn thing was more befitting of an owner than a mere manager, Arthur had a simple job, an accountant. Things could, and would, get frustrating at times. But he found the job comfortably boring and didn't wish for more pizazz than what endless numbers followed my red and black ink entailed.

Francis' life dream had always been to open up a café of his own, titled with a seemingly unpronounceable French name (The Emerald Rose, or something of the likes), and Arthur would handle the accounts in the back while Francis worked with the customers in the front.

A hand on his shoulder jolted Arthur out of his twisted reverie and tossed him back to reality with all the finesse of a concrete block falling from a skyscraper. He turned around, and his muscles tensed even more than they had already. A few blinks cleared his vision and allowed Arthur to clearly see Alfred, who he thought of as an annoying younger brother despite them not being related.

"...Arthur, are you okay, man?" he asked. Worry lined Alfred's brows and his lips were set in a grimace. The first few words of Alfred's sentence were forever lost to Arthur.

"Er, yeah, of course I am. I was just thinking about-" Arthur had been thinking about the future he and Francis were going to share that would never come true. The tears came again in full force and he wiped them away with his free arm before continuing, "Things, I was just thinking about some things."

Alfred's demeanor changed into one of pity. "Oh."

Arthur didn't know what Alfred had meant by that and he was beginning to feel irked at the expressions he could easily read on Alfred's face. He did not need anyone's pity for crying out loud!

"Hey, Artie?" Arthur turned his attention back to Alfred and he didn't pay full attention to Alfred as he continued, "I know you're going through a tough time and I'm never going to be able to understand it, but if you ever need to talk I'm always here for you."

Alfred wore a large grin as he cupped Arthur's hand within his own. It was reminiscent of when Arthur used to do that to Alfred as he explained to him about the downfalls of life and how one must never let oneself be bogged down by circumstances outside of one's control. Arthur should probably heed his past self's advice.

"Thank you," Arthur said after a few moments of silence.

"You're welcome! I don't mind doing anything as long as I'm able to help you." As if a switch had been flipped, Alfred was smiling goofily once again. It didn't make Arthur feel any better — it just reminded him of the cloud of gloom that had followed him for the past few weeks.

He chuckled humorlessly and gently pulled his hand away from Alfred's, shoving them into the too-small pockets that were not meant for hands – especially not a hand that had just been clinging onto a pile of dirt for dear life just moments prior. Arthur forgave Alfred when he wiped his hands on the thigh of his trousers, he had just been holding Arthur's dirt covered hand.

"Do you have any idea of what you're going to do now?" Alfred asked in a small voice.

It was painful to think of a future without Francis. Arthur fought back a wince. "I don't know. Right now, I'm living day to day, hoping that tomorrow will be different."

Hoping that tomorrow he would wake up in the morning with sunlight streaming on his face as he felt tempted to rip the blankets off of Francis so that he could at least have some warmth before he rolled out of bed and began the day.

"How about we go out for breakfast? We never do that anymore." Alfred was right. The last time he had spent one - on - one time with Alfred was when he announced his engagement to Francis. That felt like it had just been the other day, even though it had been nearly a year ago already.

"You are not dragging me to a seedy McDonalds that offers their Happy Meals for 'half price'," Arthur scowled, but he felt no force behind the expression and quickly dropped it.

"Hey! That was just a mistake. I was thinking more of the McDonald's a few blocks away from mine."

Arthur nodded tersely. Maybe listening to Alfred talk about his latest fad would help him get his mind off of things, even if just for an hour or two.

"Great. I'll meet you at ten?" Alfred asked.

"I'll be waiting," Arthur answered.

The rest of the day passed in a flash with Arthur in a dazed state, and before he knew it the funeral was over. Not that he could remember much of it. Only tearing up and trying to blink away tears many times before he got fed up with everything, including himself, and let rip with the alcohol.

It was Alfred and his younger brother, Matthew, that had been his saving grace at that point in his terrible day.

"Come on Artie, let's get you home," Alfred said soothingly.

"I'm not a delinquent, if you could stop talking to me like a kid." Arthur lost control of his tone and it trailed off into a wail, all traces of scathing venom gone.

He had not been drinking. He would say that with his both of his hands on the Bible and everything. Though maybe he shouldn't be putting his hands on a Bible to promise anything while drunk.

Matthew opened the door to Alfred's car, "Come on Arthur, I'll sit with you in the back." He smiled softly towards Arthur.

Arthur didn't even notice the car door open, or Matthew speaking to him. Instead, he just stood there, his reddened face contorting into pure pain as he couldn't help but just let the tears flow.

"Why does it have to be me, dammit! This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life or some other drivel. It wasn't supposed to be— " he gulped — "it wasn't meant to be this." He hit his sides in childish anger.

Alfred grabbed him by the shoulder and Arthur tried to shake him off. He pointedly ignored the soothing thoughts that Alfred voiced and instead focused his attention on the maelstrom of emotions swirling within him.

It just wasn't fair.

Nothing in his life had been. He barely noticed Alfred and Matthew manhandling him into the car. It was just so unfair that he had been blessed with misfortune his entire life, and now — when he was finally starting to think that his twenty-three year streak was about to break—

The car started up and rolled out of the parking lot. The seat was warm from the sun and the tires crunched over the gravel. Arthur let his forehead rest against the cool window as he watched the blurry background slowly roll away. First, he was couldn't make out the coloured blobs of people that were still milling in the parking lot. Then he lost track of the building he had spent the last few hours in as it blended in with the others surrounding, and finally, the car turned right, and he lost sight of the road altogether.

The car ride was mostly silent, comprising of Matthew slowly rubbing Arthur's back in soothing circles as he furiously continued to wipe at the tears welling at the corners of his eyes with a tissue Michelle had given him earlier that day.

It took him a while before he finally noticed his surroundings growing familiar. Areas he had visited only once or twice in his life vanished and were replaced by the neighbourhoods he knew better than the back of his hand from the days he has been a knobbly-kneed child that had an all-encompassing urge to explore everything around him.

Arthur turned away from the window and stared at the headrest of the passenger seat. Everywhere he looked reminded him of Francis. When he looked outside he could see the route they would take when they walked to the small shop on the corner of Tennyson and Ronwill, and the alley they had drunkenly made out in when they had been too pissed to know where they were and what they were actually doing passed by in a blur.

He absentmindedly rubbed a scar on his hand, his fingers trailing over the raised skin, and he tried to pull his mind away from the endless loop of memories involving him and Francis that insisted on playing over and over again in his mind. Their first kiss, Francis' proposal, the event that had led to him getting the scar in the first place — he and Francis had gotten a bit frisky in the kitchen and it had not boded well for Arthur's hand at the end.

The car rolled to a stop and Arthur still didn't notice anything until Matthew stopped rubbing his back and the silence that had been oppressing the entire drive rose to a deafening level. Francis had always been generous with touching Arthur, a reassuring pat on the back or the simple act of letting a part of himself rest against Arthur at any given time. The absence of any human touch at the moment just amplified the loneliness.

But they wouldn't understand how Arthur felt. They wouldn't get how he longed for nearness above all. He would never understand why the only person that knew him like he knew himself was ripped away from him to leave him an empty husk of a man.


	2. Chapter 2

No matter how much he twisted and turned in his double bed, Arthur found it impossible to find a comfortable position to fall asleep in. He felt like he'd shed every single drop of water in his body, yet his nose still continued to run and forced him to sniff periodically.

Sleep evaded his tired mind. His eyes burned and begged him to let them slip shut. When he did so his mind shrieked at him. It dredged up the events of the last few days, again and again. In the end, he got tired of the scenes projecting within his mind and he gave up and opened his eyes to stare at the dark roof, or the silhouette of the window if he lay on his left side, and wait in silent agony for the process to start again.

Usually, when in these sorts of moods, he wandered the house with bare feet that felt uncomfortable against the wooden floors, he usually wore shoes. With the exception of when he wandered around his house at night. Those times he relished in the fact that Francis was a fan of long rugs that ran through the hallways and ended happily in front of the TV.

They didn't have many mirrors in their house. The idea of one in place of the expensive Jackson Pollock ripoff Francis bought at an art show and placed in their dining room just seemed odd. Arthur didn't want to look up during a Sunday lunch and be met with his own eyes.

Arthur disliked mirrors in general. Something about them made him uneasy as his reflection stared at him, and created a window into another world. As the duplicate followed his actions like a twisted game of Simon Says.

Walking in his house felt odd. He didn't want to normalize calling it his house instead of their home. He doubted that he would get used to it. They had bought the house a few months before Francis proposed.

Even when Francis hadn't been home the house had never felt so empty. It felt as if all the warmth had been leached out of the house and left him with a hollow shell. He turned on the bathroom light and shielded his eyes against the fluorescent light.

The sting at the back of his eyes left and he went to the sink to splash cold water on his face. The cold water felt cold against his puffy eyelids and reddened cheeks. He stood there, hands gripping the edges of the sink hard enough to hurt his hands and stared directly into his bloodshot eyes.

A small flicker at the corner of his eye pulled his attention away from his face. Unsure of what he'd seen, Arthur spun on the balls of his feet. Nothing met his eyes. He crept out of the bathroom with his hands balled into fists. He had no other weapon.

Arthur was tired, achy and still drunk. If someone tried to take his or Francis' possessions, they were in for hell. Arthur was not in the mood for games.

He stopped in the hallway and glanced to either side. To the left were the two bedrooms, doors closed, and hinges unoiled. To his right, the kitchen, lounge, and bathroom. He kept his footsteps light and breathed slowly against his heart that begged for him to breathe at the same rate that it thumped against his chest.

Arthur found nothing. His heart rate calmed and left him lightheaded whilst the world teetered around him.

He felt more tired than he had a few minutes ago. His back ached and he adjusted his pillows and duvet. Arthur rolled onto his side, cocooned himself in the duvet, and hugged one of Francis' pillows tight against his chest. When he breathed deeply enough he could still catch the scent of Francis — a deep earthy scent, like the countryside after a scorching hot day that finally let in on its promise of rain, and later, a thunderstorm.

Morning came along with the sound of his ringtone annoying his half-asleep mind. His hand slapped around the desk until he found the offending item. 'Alfred' the caller ID read. A headache made its presence known and Arthur wince, his retribution for drinking and crying the night away with for more gusto than a teenaged girl would admit to, nevermind a fully grown man.

It took two tries before to slide the green answer button across the screen. He was about to mumble a greeting when Alfred's voice impatiently started to speak on the other side of the line.

"Dude where are you? It's eleven now and I'm starving," he said over the phone, voice high and stringy.

Arthur didn't recall deciding to meet up with Alfred. He racked his brain and let his most recent interactions with Alfred play over. Yesterday, at the funeral, Alfred had come to him and offered a breakfast. All strength left him as he allowed himself to fall into bed and close his eyes.

"I'll be out in a bit." Pain lit up his voice and pushed the volume down to an angry simmer.

Arthur had no intention of leaving his room until he had gotten some more sleep. The headache pounded against his head. It didn't want to abate any time soon. He knew that there was no chance of just a few more moments of sleep, but his sleep addled brain thoroughly convinced him that he would not fall back to sleep.

He just got back to sleep despite the headache when his phone started ringing again. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to fling his phone against the wall and watch in satisfaction as something cracked and the screen turned off, never to display the stupid white apple with a bite out of it ever again.

Instead, he picked it up and slapped it against his ear.

"Yes?" he asked. He jerked violently as ringtone continued to blare in his ear and he nearly did throw his phone out of shock. Arthur looked at the screen and it still showed the caller ID that read 'Alfred' and the picture of Alfred squished up against the glass of a window that Alfred had insisted upon, saying that it would be funny since it looked like he was trapped behind the screen of the phone. Arthur swiped right.

"Hello?" he asked again. Arthur's heart thumped fast and it didn't gel well with his headache. He really should learn to pull back on the drinks, but yesterday could be classed as an exception. He did not drink as a coping mechanism, no sir, he was perfectly fine.

"Come on Artie, I've been messaging and calling you for hours – I haven't even had breakfast yet."

Arthur waited for a moment before answering, "I'm getting up now." His speech still slurred from sleep — or was it the alcohol still skipping happily through his system?

Alfred sounded impatient and definitely more than a tad annoyed now. "And I'm coming in to make sure that you're actually getting ready. Last time you just fell asleep mid-call."

"I did?" Arthur really didn't feel like getting up at the moment. He would much rather spend the rest of his day holed up in bed, tending to his hangover. The damn thing did seem a lot more threatening than an irate Alfred.

Below him, the door slammed shut and the loud thuds of Alfred running up the stairs echoed throughout the house. Alfred was impossible sometimes.

"You're still in bed, man. Time to get up, there's a wonderful burger waiting for you. Greasy food always helps with hangovers." Alfred smiled too widely and ripped open the curtains with more enthusiasm than necessary that early in the morning.

"How'd you even get into my house?" Arthur stared incredulously at Alfred. He didn't know of any way that Alfred could get into the house other than, "Please tell me you didn't pick the lock?" He let himself fall face first into the pillow.

There was a look of contentment that crossed visibly over Alfred's face, "Much better. Only an old man keeps his spare key under the doormat." He moved so that he stood directly between Arthur and the Sun. An angel, the only word for someone that saved from a death as terrible as exposure to sunlight.

Arthur grumbled, "And McDonald's has never been the way to cure a hangover."

"I'll get you a glass of water and some ibuprofen. They're in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, yes?"

"Bottom right corner," Arthur said in affirmation.

"Alrighty, I run and get them for you. So long, uh... do something?" Alfred bounded out of his room and to the bathroom. No angel ran around another man's house like a leashless puppy. As sunlight hit his face once again, he relinquished Alfred from angel status.

Arthur did not feel like doing anything at the moment. He didn't want to get up and empty his overly full bladder, he didn't want to go and eat fast food with Alfred, and he sure as hell didn't want to exist. He just wanted to lie under his blankets in silent agony and pretend that he wasn't human, but rather just a part of the bed, waiting to eventually be smoothed out into something resembling normality.

The time between Alfred leaving his room and then returning with a glass of water and two pills was too short for Arthur's liking. Oh, how he longed to continue to wallow in self-pity and dwell on memories of Francis and all the shit the man got up to.

"Drink up," Alfred said as he passed the glass into Arthur's waiting hand and then dropped the pills in as well.

Arthur took in a deep breath before tipping the two small pills into his mouth and hurriedly drank more than half of the glass to get them down before their hideous taste assaulted his tongue.

"You should really get more ibuprofen, you're nearly out," Alfred commented.

Arthur glared half-heartedly at Alfred, "I'll get them when I next go to the shops. I'm sorry for not keeping a full bottle on my person at all times." Alfred wanted the ibuprofen, without the aspirin, and apparently better for the system. Arthur didn't care about whether it had aspirin or not, he just wanted it to work. Not that the ibuprofen did very well, in his opinion anyways.

Alfred laughed. "Come on, it's time to get your ass out of bed and get ready for the day. It's nearly lunchtime and we agreed on breakfast."

"I didn't agree on breakfast, we just agreed on a time." Despite his objections, Arthur got out of bed and stretched, his muscles felt lethargic and waxy.

"Ten is still breakfast," Alfred smirked.

Arthur was about to unbutton his shirt – it was still the same one he had worn at the funeral, though his jacket and tie had been lost somewhere, same with his left sock. He looked up and met Alfred's eyes.

"Out, I'm getting dressed and would rather not do it in front of an audience thank you very much."

Alfred put his hands up in mock surrender, "Jeez, no need to bite my head off," As he left he called out, "And don't forget deodorant, you stink."

Arthur grimaced as Alfred left the door and closed it behind him. Once he left Arthur leaned onto the wall and inhaled. He wasn't overly shy with his body, but he did not want Alfred to give a running commentary as he got dressed. That and the fact that he had a tattoo on his arse that no one except Francis the tattoo artist had seen it, ever.

A small electric guitar, rendered in red, blue and grey, that rested more on his thigh than his arse, but still well within the area that Arthur would not show to any Tom, Dick or Harry.

After finding suitable clothing – namely jeans and a T-shirt of AC/DC, a band he barely listened to even during his more rebellious days– he left the room and found Alfred in the kitchen, digging through his stuff.

For a few moments he stood there. Then he spoke. "Alfred, what are you doing?"

Alfred turned around quickly before giving a movie star grin. "I was just trying to find some coffee 'cause I thought you were gonna shower and you usually take so long. I really don't want to know what you get up to in that hour." He wrinkled his nose, the action lifting his glasses a smidgen.

Arthur chose to ignore him. "There's no time to make coffee."

"What about the granules? You can make it in a few seconds then." Alfred closed the cupboard and stood.

"Like we're going to keep any of that, it tastes awful." If there was one thing that Arthur knew how to do, that was to make coffee. After about three months of intense instruction from Francis on how to use the grinder without burning anything. It had been an honest mistake, even though highly improbable. Something about the highest setting on anything just called out to him, like paid leave from work with a free bottle of something that would leave him utterly shit-faced. Not that he wanted to drink ever again in his life with how he felt, the mindset never lasted for long though.

"Okay. I guess there's no time for coffee before I leave then?" Alfred asked. He jumped onto the counter and swung his legs against the cupboard.

Arthur growled in annoyance. "Get off the counter, you're not a cat." He ran a hand through his hair and tried to straighten the creases in his shirt using his hands.

"Come on man, don't be a buzzkill." Alfred continued to swing his legs.

As they kept thumping against the cupboard Arthur found himself growing annoyed at the erratic sound, "Just get off the counter. We'll get your McDonald's now."

Alfred sprung off the counter with feline-like agility and landed comfortably on his feet. He made eye contact with Arthur for a second and Arthur froze.

"Let's get going now." Alfred grinned.

Arthur shook his head. He tried so hard to push the fact that Francis wasn't going to join him, he would never going to tag along when he went out for morning lunch with Alfred, or returned some of his books about gardening to the library.

In that moment Alfred had looked into the blue eyes of Alfred and realised that they were eerily similar to Francis'. First, he heard Francis' voice whisper to him in the dead of night, telling him that it was going to be okay. Because it would be okay if one heard the voice of their dead lover and saw shadows in the corner of their vision that looked like a head of blond curls or saw the same eyes in those of another person.

He didn't understand it. Arthur wasn't going crazy, was he? No, of course not. He just needed to recuperate and get used to living by himself. He shouldn't dwell on the past. Arthur puffed himself up and pulled his shoulders back. If he acted like he was confident then he would be confident. At least that's what the 'make yourself a new person by the end of the week' style books said.

Arthur didn't believe it, but hopefully, it would keep him from erupting into sobs at some point throughout the took a deep breath and began to follow Alfred outside of his and Francis' house. Referring to it as his and Francis' house wouldn't work anymore... from now on it was his house. The thought tasted vile and a longed to be able to ignore it.

"And the queen has arrived," Alfred said in a mock jibe. When he noticed Arthur's expression his entire countenance changed. No longer did he grin madly with a sparkle in his eye that seemed to twist and turn with his every move. Now he was just Alfred that looked at the broken down skeleton that Arthur was in this moment.

Arthur felt a jerk of fear run through his veins like fire. He couldn't act his way through all the bullshit that was happening in his life. An unshattered man could achieve that. To try and tape the pieces of a broken mirror together to form a perfect image would be impossible. A mere reflection of himself from weeks ago showed, with shards missing and cracks running up and through his entire body. His breathing shuddered to a halt, his heart accelerated, his shoulders drooped and he met Arthur's eyes once again. The blue tones haunting his very being.

"Dude, are you okay?" Alfred breathed out. The man just witnessed the entire thing, every single thought clearly seen as it flitted across Arthur's face. Alfred had read him like a book and it embarrassed him.

"Y-yes. I am perfectly fine." Arthur let out a practiced smile that was more of a pained grimace than anything that resembled perfectly fine.

Alfred continued to study Arthur. "If you say so. But if you don't want to go out we can always get takeout and eat it at one of our houses — or if you don't want to do anything today I can always come 'round another time."

"It's alright. I'm going with you to Mc Donald's." Arthur forced the corners of his lips to lift. He didn't want to, but getting out of the house to do something would be good for him. The last time he had left the house in the past four days had been to attend Francis' funeral.

He opened the car door and collapsed into the seat., the old car jerked in annoyance. Arthur slammed the door shut thrice before it closed properly. Stupid door.

In his peripheral vision, he saw his and Francis' house. His house. The grass on the front lawn had yellowed and the delicate herbs and flowers that he and Francis had lovingly planted when they moved in looked decidedly wilted. The house itself was quite quaint, only one story high with barely enough space for the both of them. But it was still home and away from the disgusting apartments in the city. Even if it had cost most of their meager savings to pay off the bond.

The brown-stained white walls sped away. McDonald's was only a short drive away— less than five minutes when the traffic lights were in favour. Arthur sighed, his entire world had shifted from the steady train tracks it had been on a few days ago into pure pandemonium.

"I'm always here if you want to talk," Alfred said.

"You told me that yesterday," Arthur pointed out. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger seat window and barely took in the blurred greys and browns of the buildings.

"And yesterday you were filled up with expired buffalo wings and enough alcohol to take down a small elephant."

The buffalo wings terrible, even by Arthur's standards.

"I wasn't that drunk." A brutal headache that felt like twenty construction men jackhammering at his skull kept him from protesting as much as he wanted to.

Alfred laughed then shuddered to a halt, mid-laugh. Arthur stopped trying to send a death threat via eye contact and let the tension run out of his face. One thing was certain, Arthur could easily match the ever-changing English weather, even if it refused to match his own emotions.

"I'm sorry," Arthur mumbled. Not that he felt sorry, he couldn't bring himself to care now, but later down the line he would regret it. He would hate himself if he pushed away one of the few people that actually cared about him.

"We're here Artie, you can take off your — why aren't you wearing a seatbelt?"

Arthur shrugged. Francis rested in his grave knowledgeable about how much Arthur cared for him. He had never truly vocalised his feelings for Francis, choosing to instead believe that actions spoke louder than words.

Mechanically, Arthur exited the car and slammed the door behind him. He may have been a bit too rough, but the door would never understand the maelstrom of emotions that coursed through Arthur's veins and sapped his appetite. The idea of the health hazard called McDonald's made him more nauseous than he already felt.

He swallowed a few times before speaking, "Let's go in shall we?"

Alfred smiled reassuringly and fell into step next to Arthur. The bright red and yellow logo would be forever be burned into Arthur's retina's after he stared at it for the majority of the walk from the car park.

Once inside Alfred turned to Arthur "You in the mood for anything specific?"

He looked at the colourful menu displayed over the counter for a few moments without reading it and said, "Surprise me, I'll go find us a seat."

Arthur wanted a few moments to himself before Alfred descended with three Happy Meals and a diet Coke. Something about Alfred's eternal optimism rubbed him raw and made him want to lash out. The chair he sat in settled when he sat and he leaned his elbows on the table. Bad manners, he knew, his Nana's lectures still held strong in his mind. In Arthur's opinion, fast food restaurants were exempt from good etiquette.

It was a short time before the ever-optimistic Alfred sat and brought food with him.

"I got us a big breakfast each. That should be nice – there's even a muffin or something of the likes, and you're British so you like that stuff?" Alfred tripped over his words sometimes. Arthur couldn't understand how he managed to trip over a simple sentence.

"Sure," he said. His stomach grumbled in agreement, maybe he had made himself out to be less hungry than he actually was.

"I also got a large coke for us each," Alfred added.

Arthur wrinkled his nose. He didn't like Coca-Cola, he felt no disdain towards any other pop. Maybe it's fame, or how it was a couple cents higher in the shops, or even the fact that it was green underneath all the artificial colouring.

"Oh shit! I forgot you hate Coke. I'll go back and change the order to something else. You like Cream Soda, don't you?" Alfred made a move to get up but Arthur interrupted him.

"Don't worry. I don't hate it, I just dislike it." Arthur ran a hand through his hair then put it back on the table, clasped neatly with his other hand. After a few moments, he moved them to his lap and began to play with his thumbs.

"Are you sure?" Alfred asked.

"Of course I'm sure. I'd tell you if I wasn't." Arthur voiced his opinions when he felt it necessary.

Arthur heard their order number being called out after a short wait. Alfred stood after nodding towards Arthur and went to fetch their food.

"It smells good doesn't it?" Alfred asked and set Arthur's food in front of him. Arthur took in a deep breath, the food smelled awful. As if oils that it bathed in and the various other preservatives had decided to wreak havoc on his nose.

Arthur just nodded and picked up his knife and fork. Even if it didn't smell or look as appetising as it did on the photos he would manage to stomach it.

The food tasted like it looked. Bland and with too much salt. The latter was Arthur's fault, he had been too heavy handed with the salt shaker. It did give some interest to the otherwise boring meal. Alfred dug into his own food, his face had a look of pure pleasure on it as he shoveled the food into his mouth.

"This isn't a burger, but, man it's good!" Alfred put another mouthful of what Arthur hoped were scrambled eggs — they seemed to be quite pasty — into his mouth.

Arthur did the same and chewed carefully. He pointedly did not look at the nauseating electronic menu behind Alfred's head and focused on the dull food in front of him. Everything, including the food, felt fuzzy.

Like all the colour had been sapped from his personal world and left him easting pasty, watered down eggs in a McDonald's. He ate another mouthful. What sat on his plate was still food and his stomach had yet to complain. Arthur hadn't bothered with cooking a warm meal since he left the hospital with bloodshot eyes shaking limbs.

Arthur never cooked. Francis had been the one to always try this or that recipe.

And Arthur loved it when Francis did that. He would stand and announce that they would try a different spice combination or a new dessert. Though no matter how many times Francis tried to make beef wellington it didn't work out. It came out far better than anything Arthur would manage if he attempted, but according to Francis it just lacked that something. Though he would usually iterate that with a lot more dramatics and Arthur would be left to laugh as he shook his head, wondering why he even stayed with Francis and his melodramatic ways.

Arthur shook his head and caught the attention of Alfred.

"What's wrong, man?" He asked through a mouthful of the atrocity McDonald's had dared to call a muffin.

He had thought of Francis as alive and had now realised his mistake and had to heave the wave of sadness that threatened to wash over him and throw him on the shore like an abandoned toy away.

"I was just thinking..." Arthur trailed off, his brows furrowed.

"About what? If that's alright with you. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

Arthur finished chewing and swallowed before talking (unlike Alfred), "It's nothing of importance, but if you must know I was reminiscing."

The table below him was a pale brown, speckled with beige and equally as pale yellow. His knife and fork scratched across the plate as he pushed his food around, wanting to eat more and not wanting to eat another mouthful in fear that he succumb to the nausea that still threatened to rise.

"Oh, well don't forget that if you want, I'll always be here to help you," Alfred said this brightly and for a moment Arthur could understand.

Francis and Alfred were also friends. Alfred also mourned Francis, but he has put it aside because Arthur hurt more. It warmed Arthur, like a quick moment of sun on a cloudy day. He would never get used to people putting his well being before themselves sometimes.

Arthur still found it difficult to understand why he found happiness with Francis. There had been a reason for him to get out of bed at God knows what hour and greet the world with a reluctant smile.

"That's the third time you've said that you're here for me if I need you." Arthur managed to put more food in his mouth. His expectations for the food must have been low, as the muffin didn't taste half bad. He didn't mind McDonald's but meals were never consistently good.

Alfred bit his lip and looked away, "I know. But I want to make sure that you know. Your skull is pretty thick and sometimes it takes a few tries to get stuff in there."

"You're one to speak." The retort slid easily off of Arthur's tongue and landed in the open before he had even put proper thought to it.

Alfred hadn't really paid attention to Arthur's reply and continued, "And I know you're going through a tough time, but it's gonna be perfectly good. Time heals all wounds, doesn't it?"

"I actually don't know," he answered. Arthur didn't know if the deep pit inside his heart would ever be filled and he had an inkling that it would take a long, long time to shovel enough dirt into it to stop his eyebrows from creasing and his mouth set in a grim line when he thought of Francis. Arthur's fringe fell over his eyes and made him irritated, but the effort of pushing it back up seemed to be too difficult.

"I'm sure it does. Remember that time I broke an arm trying to lift a tank and the doc told me that it had really been messed up?" To emphasise his point Alfred lifted the arm that had been completely shattered and moved all of his fingers in a wave. The ring and pinky fingers shuddered with the smooth motion of the rest of Alfred's fingers.

The back of Arthur's throat burned and he took a few sips of coke to get the feeling to subside, "That's a physical wound. I'm not quite sure about others."

"Well, we can only hope for the best."Alfred grinned like the Cheshire cat.


	3. Chapter 3

The time spent with Alfred earlier that day made Arthur feel even more alone as he sat in his lounge with a cup of tea and a book that lay open on his lap, unread. Nothing kept him occupied as his mind dangerously flitted from one train of thought to the next and his hands picked up and fiddled with everything he could find.

He picked the book up and closed it with a satisfying thud. On a spur of a moment decision he threw the book across the room. It bounced once on the beige carpet and opened to the page where Arthur's bookmark was.

Arthur still felt agitated. His muscles were tense and he wanted to lash out at something, anything. He lifted the mug to throw it after the book. Maybe it would make him feel better but he paused, and the semi-full mug stayed at eye level. A pattern of red roses and pink petunias circled its way around the mug. Arthur had never been a fan of Maxwell Williams mugs, but he couldn't deny their superior ability when it came to keeping tea warm. He hated this mug in particular, most likely because it was Francis' favourite. He couldn't break Francis' favourite mug, now could he?

It landed with a satisfying crack against the wall of the lounge. White shards sprayed everywhere and the tea dribbled down the wall onto the carpet. The destruction of Francis' special mug did nothing to quell his anger.

Fire coursed through his body like electricity and he found himself standing up and lifting a picture frame — the picture showed him and Francis on the night that Francis had proposed to him. Arthur's face flushed red from the alcohol and the excitement while Francis bore an abnormally large grin on his equally as flushed face.

That too was flung against the wall. The glass on it cracked through the middle and spidery lines spread over their smiling faces. It felt symbolic and created a physical manifestation of how Arthur felt, like his heart had been split into with those pieces only being held together by the bare minimum, threatening to split into a million pieces that would never be able to be pieced back together.

He threw another object, his phone this time, and the screen cracked loudly. More books, a decorative vase, and a plate that he had used for breakfast nearly a week ago all joined the list of items damaged by Arthur's maelstrom of emotions.

His chest heaved, his eyes burned, and his fingers felt as if match sticks had been forced into them and they could only be snapped by releasing his anger. The little that he had ruined wasn't enough to burn out his rage. He walked calmly towards their bedroom and he managed to stub his toe on the corner of the couch, leaving him cursing in agony as he held his foot to stave away the pain.

Arthur's shoulders drooped and he looked at the damage he had caused. His eyes followed the trail of tea down the wall and towards the tea-soaked books, broken glass and shattered wood.

The picture looked at him innocently, the people in it didn't know what happened in the future. They did not know of the pain that Arthur had gone through as he knelt by Francis' hospital bed, not even thinking to grab a chair, as he held his deathly still hand and waited.

His feet dragged over the carpeting as he walked to the mess he had made. Shame washed over him. His lapse in control had broken stuff — stuff that he held close to his heart.

Francis' favourite mug, the was the book that Francis had been reading before he had, before he had—

Arthur couldn't bear to use the word in his mind, finding it too final for his liking. He didn't want to think of it like that. He would see Francis at some point, if it was a few years or a few decades from now he did not know.

Thinking of things like the afterlife and one day being united with Francis seemed childish. Yet, Arthur still grasped at those straws.

He knelt and picked up the photo frame. It was one of the few photos that he had of himself, never having been one for them. Much preferring to be the one behind the camera instead of in front of it. Francis made him to appear in more photos than he liked. The man had a way of twisting his arm, and whenever he was convinced he would stand there, a plastic smile on his face and his arms held awkwardly at his sides.

This photo was different. He was smiling truthfully for one, but he also had not been adverse to the taking of the photo at all when it happened. The waiter had happily obliged and received an extra large tip from Francis that evening because of it.

How he wished that he could go back in time to relive that day. It was still vivid in his mind and he could almost taste the tang of the expensive wine that Francis had insisted on and the delicious smells that permeated the room. Arthur could remember being wholly surprised when Francis stood from his seat, went onto one knee, and reached into his pocket.

At first he had been confused and not fully understanding until Francis opened the small box to show a plain ring – he knew that Arthur's tastes did not run on the more flamboyant side of things – and began to talk.

When he finished his speech Arthur stood there for a few moments in a daze before he finally registered the fear that crept onto Francis' face. Arthur's voice cracked as he had said 'I do?' in an unsure tone and he watched as Francis' face split into a grin as he slipped the plain band of gold onto his hand.

They then kissed, and that left Arthur feeling slightly embarrassed. It was one of the first times he kissed someone properly in public and he felt bad about the way he bungled up Francis' proposal. If he had a chance to relive that day again Arthur would want to change it so that he would say 'yes' as soon as Francis finished speaking. Not something that would be more suited to an altar – which was where they had been aiming towards at that point.

Arthur would give anything to relive that day even if he couldn't change anything. Any day with Francis in it would be fine as long as he could hold him one more time, and be able to see the emotions that flitted over the man's face as if he were an open book.

He picked the glass off of the picture frame and set it down on the nearest table. The picture had warped slightly, but it was still alright. Then Arthur set about putting the books in a pile on the floor. He would have to find some way to dry them and press them down to minimize any damage to the paper.

The larger shards of ceramic were collected and put into his hand while the smaller ones were left on the carpet. Spending ages picking them up was futile, when he could just give the area a once over with a vacuum when he next cleaned the house. He dumped the broken pieces in the bin and let the lid drop shut. The sound echoed through the empty house.

His hand stung when he leaned it against the door frame and when he moved it to see why it hurt he saw a v-shaped cut — jabbed when he picked up the broken mug, most likely. A small spot of blood marred the white door frame. He wiped it off with his sleeve. He wore a dark shirt and Arthur felt too lazy to fetch the yellow rag hanging over the tap. It wasn't even that much blood.

There was still enough to warrant him going to the bathroom to wash his hand and find a plaster or something to put over his palm. The light was still on from when he'd left it on last night. Arthur grumbled, he really shouldn't do stuff like that, it was wasteful.

The tap opened easily and cold water rushed out out and straight into the drain. He waited a few moments for it to heat up before putting his hand under it and watching as the water turned pink for a for a moment. Next time he picked up stuff like that he would be more careful, he vowed to himself.

Arthur turned off the tap with his uninjured hand, it felt uncomfortable to be using his left hand for that, but he wasn't willing to feel pain over closing a tap of all things. While the cut wasn't that sore it would be if he squashed it against the tap as he closed it.

He grabbed a towel and dried his hands before he threw it on the counter next to the sink. Tomorrow morning he would fold it up neatly and hang it on the towel rack, next to Francis's towel. In the morning, his mind reiterated. At this rate there would be a lot of stuff that needed to be done come morning. But he didn't have work until Wednesday, his boss had been kind enough to give him a few days off with the words, 'You need them, you're married to your work.' While it was true that Arthur hadn't taken a day off work in years, unless he was too sick to get out of bed. Even then, he tried. He wouldn't consider himself married to his work, he had been saving the title for someone else.

"You really shouldn't let your anger get the better of you."

Like Francis. Arthur could easily hear the smugness in his voice. He grimaced, now he was going insane top of everything. His finger had rested on the light switch when he heard the hallucination and he hesitated for a moment before he flipped the switch and the room was bathed in darkness.

"I was talking to you and you turned the light off. Rude, no?"

Arthur flicked the light on and looked into the semi-dark hallway. He now pandered to a figment of his imagination, wonderful. He saw nothing in any of the open doors, nor in the hall. His head continued to swivel until it reached the mirror.

He whipped around and saw nothing behind him. At least Arthur's mind kept things spicy when it decided to give up on him. He doubted any normal person would think of having their dead lover appear in the mirror as a hallucination.

"I'm going insane now, that's spiffing." He pursed his lip.

A small laugh came from the reflection in the mirror. "Why Arthur, you're just as insane as when I last saw you."

That was Francis alright. His mind had really gone all out. His blond hair curtained his eyes and the sides of his face, and there was thicker stubble than usual on Francis' chin, but that could be forgiven as Francis' eyes remained the same. Immediately, thoughts of the ocean and warm sunny days with nary a cloud in the sky were dredged up from the sandbanks of his memories.

He pulled himself away from Francis' eyes. "I see my mind hasn't slacked on giving you the same humour you have. Damn hallucination," he grumbled.

"But I'm not! I'm just as real as you are."

Arthur made a point of looking around him. "Yet you're stuck in a mirror, that's not very real. I would agree if I could see you in front of me, where I could touch you. Yet you're dead, and I'm not."

The illusion paused to consider this for a moment. "You could say that my body is dead but my soul is just as alive as the moment I first met you." His hand went for Arthur's. It didn't slip into his and hold it firmly like it had done so many times before. Rather, its fingertips grazed Arthur's knuckles. He shivered, even when he felt nothing and only saw it happening.

"I can still feel you — so warm," Francis tenderly whispered into Arthur's ear. "You must smile, a frown has never suited your beautiful face."

Arthur's frown grew as he stared into his own reflection. "And your hands are still as cold as my feelings towards you." Now he was taking his anger out on a figment of his imagination. Arthur knew that Alfred still had the psychologist's number on speed dial. He could always ask him for a favour.

"Then my hands must be very hot." Francis smirked as he continued to caress Arthur's hand. Arthur still didn't feel a thing, not that Francis knew.

He pulled his hand away. "Would you please." His voice was cold and reminiscent of when him and Francis had first gotten to know each other. Arthur had insisted on not letting Francis worm his way into his heart, and upon looking back, he saw that Francis had achieved that within moments of meeting him. Against everything he wished to think, Arthur could say that he'd experienced love at first sight.

"Please what?" Francis asked. He looked straight at Arthur through the mirror.

Not being able to see something that, rightfully, stood next to him, and instead having to refer to a mirror for visuals gave Arthur the creeps. Francis stood close enough for Arthur to have easily picked up his presence instead of just a chill in the air that came from an open window.

"Stop touching me. You've already made me feel claustrophobic just by standing there."

"So you admit I exist?" Francis moved away from Arthur. Still within touching range, but not almost on him like he had been before.

"No, I want you to get away from me." Arthur didn't know why he still conversed with his own mind. Maybe it just showed how lonely he was and he talked to it because it looked like Francis.

"I can't do that." Francis moved from behind Arthur and now stood directly beside him. "I only just got here."

Arthur looked to his right and saw their shower in the corner of the room with dirty clothes piled in it, as they had yet to get a clothes hamper and had nowhere else to put it. He looked back at the mirror and Francis stood next to him. Exactly where he had just looked.

"I would like it you could just leave." Arthur glared at the mirror. If anyone saw him speaking to his own reflection in a mirror they would class him as insane. He wouldn't blame them, since he had categorized himself as that years ago.

He didn't wait for Francis to reply and turned to go to their room. Well, he shouldn't call it their room as the Francis he had just spoken to was nothing more than a figment of his own imagination. Arthur must be more tired than he thought. He yawned, more than four hours of sleep had been his maximum for the past few nights and he needed his beauty sleep more than Francis did.

* * *

It wasn't even eight o'clock yet, and Arthur was already in bed. His mind went at a faster speed than he had thought possible, and he knew that sleep would evade him for a while more. He already tried counting sheep and reached two hundred and sixteen before that proved too tedious. Counting backwards in sevens from a thousand and left him mildly confused, and he wasn't going to get started on staring up at his ceiling.

Arthur turned over and pulled the blanket higher. He was so used to having someone else in the bed with him. The comfort of Francis' nasal snores always helped relax him. Even if he kicked Francis with his foot or hit him with an open palm and yelled at him to stop his infernal snoring at times.

There was nothing, no little snores, no quiet breathing, no Francis. Even though the odd encounter had happened nearly an hour ago, Arthur still felt chilled to the bone. A fleece blanket and a duvet covered him and he still shivered, even though that should have been more than enough to keep him warm in the throes of winter.

He sighed. It was the exact same last night and Arthur knew that his situation wouldn't change within the next few nights either. It could be that he tried to get to sleep too early. He was used to going to sleep at ungodly hours in the night due to the 'just one more chapter' pitfall that every avid reader knew very well.

Maybe a cup of tea would calm him down. Though, he felt too lazy to actually get up and ended up rolling over and lying on his back instead.

"Are you having trouble sleeping?" Francis' voice asked. Now his mind had decided to not leave him alone, wonderful.

Arthur responded angrily. "I wouldn't if you would just shut up."

"I haven't said anything in more than an hour and you're still tossing and turning," Francis pointed out.

That was true. Arthur made a noncommittal sound. "How about you shut up then and I continue trying?"

Francis' voice was closer to him now. "There's a small hand mirror in my drawer, why don't you get it?"

"Even in death you're just as vain." Arthur rolled over. At least he had said _that_ word. He had admitted that Francis was dead in a jibe against his own mind. That was one for the record books.

He knew that Francis would be sitting on the edge of their bed if he had been there. "Wouldn't you like to see me again?"

"I'd rather not."

A short pause. "It's at the top so you won't have to dig for it."

Moments passed and Arthur finally gave up. "Fine! I'll get the stupid mirror and then I can talk to my own reflection to make your stupid arse happy." He rolled over to Francis' side of the bed. The sheets were cold and Arthur hurriedly yanked the drawer open. Like Francis told him, the mirror sat at the top above all of the man's personal belongings. He took it and shuffled to his side of the bed. The drawer stayed open.

"Could you have at least closed my drawer. Anyone can see what's in it now." Francis sounded indignant.

Arthur looked towards where he thought Francis could be. "Because Alfred's going to barge into our room just to look at your sex toys." He reached over and turned on the light and still, Francis did not appear in front of him.

"You never know."

After a few moments of looking into the mirror and twisting and turning it he gave up. "Where are you even?" he asked, irritably.

Francis' face moved into the view of the mirror. "I'm right next to you."

"You mean you just stood there and watched me make a fool of myself as I waved your stupid mirror around?"

"And what if I was right next to you the entire time?"

Arthur put the mirror down and pulled himself into a sitting position. He grabbed the mirror so that he could see Francis. There was a soft smirk on his lips and his hair was neater than it had been earlier. He wore a tuxedo, the same one he would have married Arthur in if other things had not gotten in the way.

"You weren't. Your voice was coming from across the room."

"Are you sure your mind isn't playing tricks on you?" Francis asked. He put his hand over Arthur's and when Arthur moved the mirror he saw the blue-tinted skin resting comfortably over his.

"I'm quite sure of it." Arthur wasn't sure of it, but he felt glad that he could talk to Francis, and maybe, he could even manage to convince himself that he was real. His mind shouldn't have been able to recall the small beauty mark that graced Francis' neck. Arthur didn't even know that it was there until he consciously paih attention to every detail on Francis' face. He did want to double check that piece of information against a picture of Francis though.

Seeing himself in an old T-shirt and jeans that he hadn't changed out of yet, and Francis in his wedding suit while they sat on their bed felt odd. It almost seemed suited to their relationship, a sort of mundane absurdity. At first glance it may have been deemed abnormal, but to them it was normal.

"Arthur, are you okay?" Francis asked.

Arthur lifted the mirror and saw Francis' concerned look. "I'm fine. It was just—" He stopped. He couldn't explain what he felt. It could have been acceptance of his situation, but it could also be him giving up.

"Were you falling asleep? I don't mind leaving you to sleep, you look like you need it. The bags under your eyes are more of an abomination than your eyebrows."

He couldn't stop himself from scoffing at Francis. "Do you have to insult me at every turn?"

"Our relationship would become very bland without something to mix it up once in a while," Francis answered. It was something Arthur had heard many times before to answer the question that he'd voiced more times than he cared to remember.

"You could say that," Arthur said.

"And what about your typical English rudeness? You can't explain that if you tried." He looked smug and Arthur could barely stand it.

"I doubt you would be able to handle someone who listened to your every whim. You are the one that longs for the metaphorical spice in our relationship." Arthur felt glad, the superior look had been whacked off of Francis face with a windscreen wiper — and quite brutally at that.

If things had been different Arthur knew that they would be sworn enemies, always at each other's throats as they battled for the last word in an argument. Even now they were the same, but without the hate behind it. Passion stood behind their words, but a completely different kind. New people they met thought that they were bound to break up soon, but they had been together for a grand total of three (somewhat) happy years.

"Wasn't it our anniversary a few days ago?" Arthur asked. They had planned for the wedding to be on their third anniversary, 27th October, just a few days before Halloween much to Alfred's excitement and both Arthur and Francis' dread. They had both flat refused to Alfred's idea of a Halloween-themed wedding.

The slowly lifting mood immediately turned somber. "It was," Francis agreed. He seemed to sink down within the mirror and Arthur moved to mirror to see him, though it didn't work. Only Francis could control where he stood within the mirror it seemed.

"And what a shame it was," Francis continued. "Today we could have been celebrating our marriage in a nice hotel, but no, I'm stuck here in the most appalling tuxedo I have ever laid my hands on, thanks to your missing sense of fashion."

"You chose it," Arthur reminded him.

Francis' eyes widened. "I did? No wonder it's so comfortable and stylish."

Arthur sighed and shook his head. His arm stung from holding the mirror up. He let it drop and turned to face the left side of the bed but found nothing, only air.

"I still haven't canceled all the stuff for the wedding — 'll do it tomorrow." Yet another thing added to the 'tomorrow' list.

"Arthur! You shouldn't let yourself go like this, it's not like you," Francis scolded half-heartedly.

"Forgive me but the man I loved more than myself has died and I'm in a bit of a state at the moment. Your funeral was yesterday for crying out loud." Arthur's voice shook more than he would have liked.

"It wasn't my fault," Francis whispered and Arthur strained to hear him.

"Of course it wasn't! How can someone know that they're going to have a heart attack? I just wish that I could have said a proper goodbye to him."

"Why would you say a 'proper goodbye'? I'm with you right now."

"No you aren't. You're just, you're just a figment of my imagination. I'm going crazy because of you and it's killing me." Arthur balled his hands into fists and held them at his sides. The mirror rested in his lap.

Francis paused for a moment. "You mustn't be stuck on me. You're still young, there are plenty of people that would be more than happy to be with you."

The headboard rattled as Arthur banged his head against it. "I don't want to share a bed with someone else. I was ready to spend the rest of my damn life with you."

Francis looked him straight in the eye from the mirror. "I'm dead now. You can't do a thing about it. What you can do is live your life, it's only been a few days and you're still mourning over me. But I want you to start getting out there, there is so much that you need to experience still."

Arthur sighed. "I don't want to do that. I just want everything to go back to the way it was." A lump was forming at his throat. Did Francis really have to insist on taunting him? All he wanted was to cry his snotty tears and get angry at inanimate objects in peace. Not have to talk to this — this apparition.

"I'm sorry."

"What is there to be sorry about?" Arthur tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling.

"If it were up to me I would still be alive. Instead of my fingers ghosting over your skin I would be able to hold your hand, hug you, and kiss you — not stuck in this hellish limbo."

"Tell me about it," he replied bitterly.

"Well after I lost consciousness I—"

Arthur cut him off. "I was being rhetorical, you dolt."

A short laugh came from Francis. "One never does know with you."

"It's not my fault that you can't decipher whether I'm being sarcastic or not. You're the one that has had more than three years to learn my character thoroughly."

"And it's not my fault that you're such an enigma." Their conversation stagnated before Francis spoke again. "They lied about there being a beautiful white light at the end of the tunnel."

"Come again?"

"They lied about the white light. Instead of angels flying and playing their little harps I got your hairy face peering into the mirror," Francis said matter-of-factly.

"Because the long blond hair that always gets stuck in the shower drain is mine," Arthur growled.

Francis' expressive brows would have lowered slightly at that statement if Arthur was able to see him. "At least you are more interesting than some half-naked children with the word 'angel' tacked on."

"You both flatter me and terrify me at the same time." Arthur yawned.

"It is true. I would much rather be stuck with your stinky body for the rest of eternity than in a box underground."

Arthur snorted. "I'll put that on my resume then, 'more preferable than a coffin' the life of the party say you."

"I was trying to be nice." Francis did not seem pleased with Arthur's comment.

"Because being likened to a coffin is that much of a compliment."

There was a long pause before Francis spoke again. "I should probably get going."

"What do you mean by that?" Arthur tripped over his words.

"What I mean is—" Francis' voice came from further away— "That I shouldn't stay here with you. You need to move on, not be bogged down by my ghost."

"Please don't go," Arthur said hoarsely. He felt embarrassed, to not want to let Francis leave, but he was weak and was not going to lose him, again.

"I'll stay but at some point I'll have to leave." Francis sounded closer and Arthur picked up the mirror in hopes of being able to see him again.

"Promise it won't be anytime soon?"

"Unfortunately, I can only promise a few hours. You see, ah—" Francis sought for the word, "The _sol,_ it chases me away from our world and I'm left to wait for darkness — the sun."

Sometimes Arthur forgot that Francis had started to learn English when he moved to England at the start of high school. Arthur still attended middle school at that point and hadn't even met Francis until they were both well into adulthood, but he had heard many stories about Francis learning to speak English and the hi-jinks that had ensued from Gilbert and Antonio.

"Is it because you're still a part of the spirit world? Spirits are stronger at night which is why I'm able to talk to you. Correct?"

Francis appeared in the mirror and nodded. "I think so. I don't really understand it myself, though I do know that I disappear in the morning. You were the one with interests in those sorts of things."

They continued to speak for a few more hours. With arguing being more prominent than speaking as Arthur finally found someone to let his emotions out on as Francis kept bringing up that he shouldn't be staying with Arthur as it wouldn't be best for him and that he had better move on at some point.

Arthur refused to agree with that and vehemently argued with him at some points and it even degraded into a shouting match at one point. He finally convinced that small part of his mind that insisted that he was just making everything up due to the intense stress he had felt over the past few days, that it really was Francis.

He blinked his eyes a few times and noticed that the curtain showed signs of light. "It's getting light out," Arthur warned.

Francis nodded curtly. "I know, I can feel it."

"What does it feel like?" Now that he paid attention Arthur could see the tension etched onto Francis' face and when he moved within the mirror it was possible to spot Francis' fingers worrying the cuff of his jacket— a tell for whenever he felt nervous.

Francis swallowed and Arthur saw his Adam's apple bob up and down."It's like I'm being pulled and no matter how much I want to fight it I can't resist the urge."

"You're fighting it right now," Arthur stated.

"Not for much longer. I'll have to go within the next few minutes."

Outside birds had already begun to sing and Arthur felt jealous of them. They had a whole day of happiness in front of them and Arthur had nothing.

"Is it painful?"

"Not particularly, but I don't want to find out." Francis shifted until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Francis had a low pain tolerance and would complain at the smallest things. If only Arthur had listened to his complaints the other day.

"Don't be sad Arthur. I came to see your beautiful face again." Francis smiled gently at him.

"Promise me—" He breathed in— "Promise me that you'll come back." Arthur's heart constricted. He didn't want Francis to leave him. Until last night he had lost all hope in the world, and now a spark existed, and it made him want to continue onward.

"I promise. But only if you promise to have a good breakfast. If you don't want to make something I'm sure Matthew would be more than happy to, he learned from the best so you don't have to worry the way you have to when you cook." There was pride in Francis' voice. Of course there was, since he had taught Matthew Williams, Alfred's older brother, everything that he knew about cooking and had insisted that he would to take over his post of head chef at Rosa's when he retired or got promoted to a manager.

"I will." Arthur didn't want to say goodbye. He wished that he could spend forever in their room, and talk to Francis about everything that crossed his mind until his throat hurt and his eyes burned more than they already did.

"And have some sleep, you look positively dreadful with bags under your eyes." Francis' smile broadened and Arthur couldn't help but smirk in reply.

He muffled a yawn, a contender to how tired he really was and pulled up his duvet. He would just sleep for an hour or two and then get up and get started on what he had to do today. It was already quite late in the morning.

"I love you Francis." He whispered sleepily to Francis. The room stayed silent, Francis must have left already.


	4. Chapter 4

_15 October, about seven o'clock at night_

Of course Arthur only gave Francis a stupid pill of all things when he had complained of chest pain. Arthur just assumed that he must have eaten something a bit off at the restaurant they had gone to, and Francis had agreed.

"I'm cold," Francis had whined. His dilated pupils and ragged breathing would forever be imprinted into his memory.

"Don't be a baby. Here's your pill." He gave it to Francis a more roughly than he intended to and a wince wracked over his entire body.

Francis took the Advil gratefully and swallowed it. He frowned at the flavour, but other than that he seemed his usual self. Arthur left to go and find a blanket for Francis. He was rude to the man but he wasn't going to deny a sick person a blanket.

Once he found a blanket (the fluffy one that Arthur had claimed as his own and would only let Francis use on special circumstances, like now) he went back to their room and put the blanket on him. Francis had moved so that he was lying on his stomach with his knees under him. He looked as if he were bowing to some esoteric deity.

"You look like an idiot with your arse in the air like that," Arthur commented as he made sure the blanket was on Francis properly.

He had been left with nothing but to stand there. He had an inkling that Francis was a lot sicker than he was making himself out so be, and that worried Arthur. Francis had always been one to play out his illnesses to try and get the most he could out of people.

Arthur's hand rubbed circles in Francis' back. "There, there. You'll get better quick, you always do. And you don't want to be sick for our wedding do you?"

"No. Take the blanket off, I'm hot." There was a thin sheen of sweat on Francis' face and it had lost all of its colour.

Arthur took the blanket off of Francis and dumped it in a heap at the foot of their bed. His hand continued to rub circles on Francis' back.

"Tomorrow, I'll give Gilbert a ring and we can get one of those pies that Ludwig makes. I know you like them." Arthur was complete and utter crap at comforting a sick person. At least he would get one of Ludwig's sympathy pies in the morning for all his effort.

Francis then grunted and curled up even more on himself. "I don't like this," he said.

"I'm sure it will pass and you'll be right as rain in the morning. You've had this before." Though, when Francis had eaten something that hadn't agreed with him he had definitely not been this bad. Arthur's throat was tight and he felt like he shouldn't be able to breathe as easily as he was in that moment.

"Is there anything I can get for you? A glass of water? What about some plain toast, my nan always said that a piece of plain toast is the best thing for an upset stomach. Of course she also recommended butter for burns."

Francis shook his head imperceptibly, leaving Arthur at a total loss on what he should do next.

"I booked the hotel for the honeymoon." And thus, he reverted to his natural state of blabbering on in pure silence. "It's nice, a king size bed and a Jacuzzi bath. Gilbert insisted on helping me choose the best hotel and he told me that he had stayed there a few times himself."

Then Arthur had been unable to think of what to talk about next.

"Continue," Francis said.

"Er, well once we leave the wedding, I'm sure we'll both be smashed so I'll make sure that we have a taxi or something to take us to the hotel. Once we're there I want us to get the most expensive bottle of wine they have and then we'll share it. Maybe we'll run a nice bubble bath and relax together or do other things. I'm not sure, that last part I think we'll have to play by ear.

"And in the morning I'm going to order us breakfast in bed. There'll be so much food that even Alfred will have trouble eating it and I'll make sure that there's strawberries and whipped cream, because there's that fantasy of yours that you told me about when you were drunk once, and we can fulfill it if you want."

* * *

 _15 October, just_ _ **before**_ _seven o'clock_

"Because it's my fault that we don't have enough money to pay for everything. You're the one that wanted to give Antonio another loan!" Arthur's voice had risen exponentially since the start of their argument. He had been on his laptop when he received an email about one of their payments not going through.

Francis hadn't been as passionate in their argument as he usually was. "You said that it was fine." That had been his entire argument. Reiterated over and over again.

"I said it was fine _if_ we still had enough left over after we had paid for everything involving the wedding. I'm now going to have to use our savings unless you can think of another way to get some money together, because Antonio's not paying it back anytime soon and you know it." Anger twisted Arthur's voice into something that was a ghost of his normal one.

"I'm sorry. I'll try see if I can get some back from 'Tonio or ask Gil, he won't mind." Francis sat on the couch and leaned heavily against it.

Arthur didn't notice the ghostly pallor to Francis' skin or the labored breathing that came from him. "And put us in debt with Gilbert? Francis, you know how much I hate it when you make unsound financial decisions."

"I know." Francis' voice was weak. "'Tonio's my friend and I don't like seeing him struggling. Sorry."

It had been the apology that alerted Arthur to there being something wrong. When they fought it was almost unheard of for either of them to back down until the fight was over for a good few hours, or even weeks. Most of their fights ended with one of them storming out of the room as they got tired of fighting a battle that they would never win.

"Francis." Arthur paused and his head tilted slightly in confusion. "Are you alright?"

A nod came from Francis, but Arthur should have known that he was not okay. "I'm fine. I just think that I may be coming down with something."

There was a part of Arthur that knew that what was happening to Francis wasn't just 'coming down with something'. It seemed to be a lot more serious than that and it caused a mad rush of adrenaline to run it's way through Arthur. His heart beat rose exponentially and he knew that his breathing matched Francis' at that time.

"I'll help you to bed?" Arthur offered.

A short shake of Francis' head, he seemed favour physical signs over speech at the moment. "Not now. I don't think I'll make it." His sentences were short and felt like they had been crudely threaded together. "Chest, it hurts."

Minutes passed. Arthur could do nothing but stand there as he waited for Francis to tell him what was wrong. He felt terrified. What if it was actually something serious for once? Though Francis got sick often, he got better within a day or so, but something about this time made Arthur feel uneasy.

"If there's anything I can get you please don't hesitate to ask." Arthur paused and moved so that he knelt in front of the couch. He didn't want to sit on one of the other couches and Francis' limbs sprawled over the one he currently occupied, leaving no space for Arthur to get on. "If it gets much worse I might call the doctor."

"It'll...pass." Francis had trouble speaking, his breath completely lost as he struggled to keep himself calm.

Arthur found Francis' skin hot to the touch when he put his hand on Francis' thigh. He wasn't sure what else to do. A few moments later it felt as if Francis was stone cold as a shivers wracked through his body and took any and all heat with it.

Still Arthur knelt there. His mind swam at a million miles per hour, he wasn't sure what he should do. He had never been put in such a situation where he was absolutely sure that something was wrong and yet his mind didn't want to fully believe it.

His thumb traced circles to try and reassure Francis, and to give himself something to focus on. Surely it would pass like Francis said. He was only twenty-six, that was extremely young still and Francis kept himself fit and didn't eat junk food.

"How about I help you into bed? Then you can at least be comfortable," Arthur offered again. A while passed. He wasn't sure how long, even as the ticking of the clock punctuated the silence on its regular schedule.

Francis nodded half-heartedly and didn't do much else.

"Alright. Pass me your hand and I'll try pull you up. Then you can put your arm around me and lean on me." Arthur sounded a lot calmer than he felt in that moment.

Arthur grabbed Francis' hand, it felt clammy, and helped hoist him up. Once he got Francis to stand he threaded the man's arm over his shoulders and interlocked his fingers with Francis'. It was probably uncomfortable for Francis but Arthur didn't really know what else to do with his hand.

Once he had looped his hand around Francis' hip and he was sure he had a good enough grip, he started to walk with him. He could feel every single pound of Francis' weight as the man leaned heavily on him, but strangely enough he felt as if the weight wasn't a burden at all.

It was slow going and throughout the entirety of it Arthur talked to Francis. He tried to be encouraging and told him about how great he was doing and how he was almost there and then explained that the door was just a few steps away and it wouldn't take long to get there at all.

At one point Francis nearly tipped over to the one side but Arthur was glad that he held him firmly and managed to get him back onto his feet before Francis could lose the entirety of his balance and bring Arthur down with him.

Once they reached the bedroom Arthur tried to let Francis down gently but it was almost as if he was adamant about on flopping onto the bed like a fish. The duvet pulled up on the one side and Arthur didn't even feel the urge to frantically tuck it back in like he always did.

"Are you feeling any better than you were?" Arthur asked. As he expected he received a shake of the head. He bit his lip, at the moment, he was at a complete loss on what to do. Again. This was the most helpless Arthur had felt in a long time. He wished that he knew what was happening so he could know how to act. At the moment it was just a giant guessing game and he did not like it one bit.

* * *

 _ **16 October**_ _, at arse o'clock in the morning_

Arthur's fingers naturally intertwined themselves with Francis' like they done so many times that day and like Francis' fingers had done to his so many times before. Throughout the course of the day Arthur had felt the exact same hand in so many different circumstances.

During breakfast when Francis gave it a reassuring squeeze and Arthur had gotten upset over there being _jam_ on his hand and caused Francis to snicker. When they had been walking to the restaurant they were meant to go to for dinner and their hands swung gently along with the wind, bumping each other every so often. As dinner progressed Francis had slipped his left hand under the table and interlocked it with his his own, the emotions he read from the gesture had been warmth and comfort. It had been boiling as Francis panted and tried to gulp in breath, it had been icy cold as his entire body had been wracked with shivers.

At the end it had been Francis' hand. Now Francis lay still, his fingers twitched every now and then as his breathing changed pace. It was still uncomfortably fast - Francis' hospital bed had been lifted to try and alleviate any pressure on his heart while he slept. He would be asleep until well into the next day.

One of the doctors that worked the night shift entered the room and Arthur stiffened. Her footsteps were muted due to her rubber shoes, but the telltale squeaking on the linoleum floor was unmistakable. He turned around slowly to face her, fear prominent in his eyes and he felt like letting himself succumb to the veritable whirlwind of emotions brewing inside of him.

"Mr Bonnefoy," she addressed him. It was the wrong surname, and they had discussed it so many times. Kirkland-Bonnefoy had been what they'd settled on. Bonnefoy-Kirkland just didn't sound right with the ' _Bohn-fwah'_ falling in the middle instead of at the end.

"Kirkland, er," He paused as the new surname he was about to take in a few days shuddered itself out of his mouth. "Kirkland-Bonnefoy, actually."

"Mr Kirkland-Bonnefoy then. I've got the results from the echocardiogram test." Her mouth was set into a grim line and he felt dread overwhelm him just by looking at her expression.

Arthur gulped. "What are they?" He did not want to know. On one hand they could be good, saying that Francis had not been injured terribly. On the other hand… Arthur did not want to think about what the results could be.

"Unfortunately we are unable to open up the heart using a balloon or stent so the only option would be to get a heart transplant." She looked more and more nervous by the second.

"The echo test what was the result?" If Arthur had've squeezed any harder he was sure that Francis would have been forced awake even with the numerous drugs pumped into his system.

"It was the last test for the day and you were incredibly lucky to manage to have it done. We only do the tests twice a week and you would have had to wait until Tuesday before—"

"Please." Arthur wasn't above begging at this point. "What were the results? Can you just tell me instead of running around the subject like a headless chicken."

Her mouth opened for a second before it closed. Then she steeled herself and told Arthur, "Forty percent. That's how much of his heart is still working." Her eyebrows threaded together in worry and her soft voice shattered with the information she just told Arthur.

And Arthur's mind reeled. Forty percent of one's heart that was left working was not that much at all. He did not know the state that Francis would be in once he woke up — and how bad the damage would be. Forty percent. Arthur got tired after climbing two flights of stairs, his heart hammering against his chest and telling him to slow down.

But forty percent. That was absolutely insane. If only he had've gotten Francis to the hospital earlier. He was a complete idiot to just think that Francis would be alright when he obviously hadn't been. His hand continued to constrict around Francis' until he finally realised what he had been doing.

With a start he released his hand and looked on in shame at the half moon shaped marks. At least he was still alive. That was a good thing. Arthur had called the ambulance and they took Francis, he had been refused entry into the ambulance and had to search high and low for his car keys and had driven madly to the hospital. There were even a few times that he nearly swerved off the road because he shook so much and his mind went lot faster than the car had been.

It was still early enough in the evening for there to be a few doctors around that hadn't gone home and they hadn't been classed as a night emergency, apparently, a favour from the receptionist that had, according to her, saved Arthur a lot of money. He didn't know exactly what she said, he was too worried about rushing through the forms so he could hand them in and get to Francis.

They managed to stop the heart attack, whatever they had done to do so and managed to squeeze in Francis for an echocardiogram test. He wasn't too sure what that entailed either, but it would take a photo of the heart using ultrasound in order to create an image of the heart so that it could be examined.

It was his kind of luck, and he felt terrible because it had fallen on Francis. Francis had been so excited for their wedding. He had planned everything down to a T. The cake, their clothes, the photographer, the invitations, he had even attempted to write Arthur's wedding vows for him, much to his consternation.

It was so bloody unfair. He had finally gotten his chance at happiness, and he'd gotten it ripped out from under him like a tablecloth. He still stood, but he had wobbled and still wobbled precariously, waiting to fall at any moment.

* * *

 _October 16, fuck o'clock in the afternoon_

It was late in the afternoon that Francis finally decided to come back from the dead. Arthur should have thought of a better analogy than that. It was harsh, considering the events that had happened last night.

Arthur had barely gotten a wink of sleep. He knew that he must have dozed off at around four in the morning because there was a period of time, about thirty minutes long, where he couldn't remember anything. Or he could have been so stressed that he just forgot what happened. In all truthfulness, Arthur was a complete wreck,

"Afternoon, sleeping beauty," Arthur said when he saw Francis crack open an eye to show a slither of blue.

"What time izzit?" Francis asked. His voice slurred from being in a drug-induced sleep.

Arthur looked towards the clock. "It's afternoon, two to be exact. You managed to sleep the entire day away."

Slight panic fell over Francis' features and he sat up fully before wincing. "Where am I? What about my work, I had to go in early today."

"I've already sorted it out." Arthur pushed Francis down gently. "Just relax and keep your trap shut. You had a heart attack and the doctor told me that you will still be sore and weak for a few more days, if not weeks."

He wasn't going to tell Francis what the doctor had told him. Due to their rushed entrance the previous night, it had been overlooked that Arthur technically wasn't married to Francis yet. He knew that they would not have told him the results of the echocardiogram amongst other things if they had've known that they weren't married. That didn't change his resolve, he didn't want Francis to know how bleak things were. Arthur really didn't want the man to give up hope.

"But I'm not that old and I'm not that fat." Francis rubbed at his eye and stretched in the bed.

The chance of him having a heart attack, especially one so big, had been almost nothing. "I know. But these sorts of things can happen to anyone. On the up side, you're still alive," Arthur tried.

"It must have been bad," Francis said. "The Arthur I know prides himself on being a realist despite your pessimistic tendencies. So how bad was it?"

He would not tell Francis how bad it actually was. He had been found out on his lie with such a thing as optimism. Arthur Kirkland (soon to be Kirkland-Bonnefoy) was not optimistic. In order to steel himself he took in a deep breath in.

"It was one of the worse cases that they'd seen. They weren't able to put a stent in or anything like that, the only option would be a heart transplant or you'll have to live with the damage. I don't know how bad that is yet." He ran his hand through his hair and his nails scratched at his scalp from the roughness of it.

Francis laughed. He honest to God started to laugh. It was more of a chuckle than a laugh but Arthur was left dumbfounded. The man really was crazy. After a long while Francis seemed to calm himself down.

"Sorry," he began. "I can't believe our turn of luck." Francis' face was grim, despite the laughter he knew the full extent of the situation. Or at least what he thought was the full extent of the situation.

"You can say that again." Arthur had stood since Francis had woken up. The soft movements of him from under the thin hospital sheets snapped Arthur's mind to full attention and he was ready and waiting to fetch anything if Francis needed it, or if there was something wrong. Since there seemed to be no issues at the moment he pushed Francis' legs aside and sat down on the bed without his permission.

"You could have asked. I'm lying here in hospital and then you barbarically shove my legs aside to make space for yourself," Francis said indignantly.

"Well, I have been at your bedside for the past twelve or so hours, the least you could do is give me the space to sit." Arthur settled himself into a more comfortable position so that he could lean on the rail at the foot of the bed. He suppressed a yawn, after everything that happened over the past few hours, and with him being stressed over Francis, he had been left in a right state.

All he wanted to do was to curl up next to Francis and sleep for the rest of his life, but he couldn't. For starters, Francis would tease him about doing something so childish, and then Arthur wouldn't want to be caught in public in such a… demeaning position. He did value his dignity above most things.

"If you want to sit on the same bed as me you better help me to the bathroom or else you won't want to sit on the bed any longer."

Arthur snorted. "I'm not helping you, nor your old man dick to the bathroom."

"I'm only three years older than you."

Arthur sighed and stood. "I just got comfortable. You better be grateful for this. Come on." He took Francis' hand and helped him into a sitting position.

Francis didn't look to be too comfortable sitting under his own power. "If you don't support me properly and I fall, I will end you."

He awkwardly tried to slip and arm around Francis. In all honesty, he didn't know what he was doing, but at least he had his strength on his side and was able to help Francis to the edge of the bed. Francis only wore the pants he had on the night before. He didn't even remember when Francis' shirt had been lost.

Today Francis leaned on him even more than he had the night before and Arthur had to right him every few moments.

"I'm not helping you aim," Arthur ground out when they reached the door to the bathroom. It was in Francis' room that he shared with three more beds and zero patients, so it wasn't a very far walk. But Francis seemed to be tired.

"Just give me a few moments," he managed to say between breaths. He looked like he had run one of those marathons that people train months to do, not walking to the bathroom situated less than ten steps away.

* * *

 _October 17, who gives a shit about the time at this point any more._

"I regret to inform you that Mr. Bonnefoy died during the night." A different doctor to the previous morning talked. A man now, with clipped tones and a hard gaze that didn't hide the emotions he felt.

Arthur stopped mid-step, his foot hovered indecisively over the grey floor of the hospital. He didn't want to believe it. The staff had forced him out of the hospital with the excuse that he needed rest and that visiting hours were over. Apparently, Arthur had been lucky that he was able to stay during the previous night due to it being an emergency.

That had been his last night with Francis.

"What?" Arthur asked. His foot came down slowly and he faced the doctor. His mouth stayed open, even though he had finished speaking.

"I'm sorry sir, would you like to pay your final respects to the body?" The doctor's grip on his clipboard was strong enough to turn his knuckles white, but the tone contradicted his body language completely.

"What happened? I need you to tell me. Was it because he wasn't breathing properly or was it something else? Just tell me please." Arthur felt helpless. He hadn't expected something like this. The entire thing was surreal. Francis was supposed to be waiting at home, ready to joke with him and jovially insult him on everything imaginable.

Not lying on a hospital bed with labored breathing and flushed skin. Not lying there _dead_. Arthur couldn't get his breathing to listen to him and the all too familiar tilting and twisting of his body began as the nausea hit him. His jaw snapped shut with an audible clacking of his teeth.

"He had a second heart attack. There was an issue with his placement and he was put into the wrong ward, meaning that—"The doctor was cut off by Arthur as rage began to envelop him in a heat that he had experienced many times before.

"Meaning that due to your stupid mistakes he is dead," he hissed. "I was forced to go home with the promise that everything was going to be alright and when I come back what has just happened? Due to negligence my fiancé is dead. And did I get a phone call?" Arthur's voice became hysterical. "No! I didn't even get told that it happened."

"Sir, please calm down, you're causing a scene." The doctor tried but Arthur wasn't having any of it.

"Do I look like I give a rat's arse about a scene! He is dead, do I have to spell it out for you? D-E-A-D. I wasn't even told about it." Arthur's hands constricted into fists and he fought to control his breathing.

He met the doctor's eyes. "Just take me to see him. Dammit! Why? Why does everything have to happen to me." The anguish was evident in his voice. He turned back to the doctor and said to the doctor in a quiet voice, "Please, just take me to him."

There were many twists and turns in the hospital. A few paintings lined the wall, all bright colours and happy images. Arthur wanted to take them all off the wall and throw them. He had already lost track of where he was in the hospital and the smell of lemon-scented disinfectant assaulted his nostrils.

Large windows let sunlight into the hospital. The midday sun shone brightly outside, and he could see staff members sitting and talking outside. On their break when their lack of order had caused the death of someone within the very walls of this hospital.

"We're nearly there sir," had been all that the doctor had said on the walk. Arthur wanted him to speak, he wanted the man to insist that it wasn't their fault so that he could rip into the man's neck and lay him bare for everyone to see what a filthy liar he and every other person in the medical profession was.

He looked peaceful. Arthur sucked in a breath at the sight. Any and all traces of any emotion had been completely wiped from Francis' face, leaving him in a tranquil state. His arms had been moved so that the hands rested on top of each other on his stomach.

"I'm sorry," Arthur whispered quietly to the stillness. He slowly moved over to him and made sure that his shoes didn't make a noise on the floor, lest he wake him. Lest he wake the dead man with the sound of himself walking.

His hand glided over long fingers, they were cold to the touch. He would never be able to feel the warmth of Francis ever again. Francis had left him all alone in this cruel world, he had abandoned him.

"I hate you, you know. Thanks to you our chance at a fairytale ending is completely ruined." Arthur laughed humorlessly. The closed eyelids of Francis were disconcerting. They were so round as they molded to the shape of his eyeballs. Above them there were perfectly shaped eyebrows that had held so much expression in them as they danced with Francis' emotions.

He paused as if he were waiting for Francis to open an eye and make a remark about hate being such a strong word.

"Well then, I despise you more than any other person on the entire planet, and that includes Gilbert," Arthur replied to the mock conversation.

Then Francis would say something about Gilbert at least knowing when to shut up.

"Like you're one to speak. Always going on about your next appointment for a manicure or how one of your customers ordered fish and chips in your restaurant and how that ruined the oil. And I'd have to yell at you to shut up or keep you entertained in other ways."

Francis' lips looked smooth and he knew that they felt just as smooth as they looked — Francis had kissed him many times throughout their three-year-long relationship. Though he was going to miss their most important kiss of all, the one at the altar.

"No I'm not shutting up because you're dead. This is me trying to say my goodbyes to you." Arthur choked on the word 'goodbye' and what had previously been a lighter atmosphere instantly descended back into the darkness it had been barely a few minutes prior.

"I guess this is it." He gulped for air. "It's now time for me to say goodbye to you. I wouldn't have thought this moment would come so soon. We were supposed to have decades together." The blond hair was silky under his hand.

"It was meant to be forever." Tears sprung up in his eyes and he blinked them away. There was no chance in hell that we was going to be weak and cry, especially not in front of Francis. He would probably taunt him for years. His mind paused, yes, the dead man would totally taunt him.

"We weren't meant to be ripped apart because of some stupid mistake!" There was a tremor in his voice now. "And you had to leave me." His hand ripped itself away from Francis and he cradled it with his other one.

He shouted now. "You left me less than a week before our wedding and now I have to deal with everything by myself thanks to you!"

It was at this point that he couldn't completely hold back the tears that threatened to run down his red face. He dabbed his eyes with his sleeve and glared at Francis. Arthur sat with his back completely straight on the other hospital bed and his arms crossed gracefully in his lap, not unlike Francis'.

"I love you so much that I hate you. I wish that I could have shown you exactly how much I love you. It hurts so much, it always had, but now, I'm just empty."

He sat there for a long time as he tried to reel in his emotions. Arthur's head pounded painfully, his ears buzzed, and the world swayed around him like he was on a ship. He jerked suddenly when he felt a hand on his shoulder and was met with the doctor that had told him the news.

Arthur didn't even want to say the word to himself anymore.

"It's been an hour, sir," The doctor stated, he no longer held his clipboard.

After the doctor spoke Arthur nodded. He didn't trust his voice to be able to say anything without breaking, as well with himself. and leading to him collapsing on the floor as he bawled his eyes out. That sort of thing was reserved for behind closed doors. Not in public in front of more than one person.

Arthur slowly stood, his legs felt like jelly and he was worried that he wouldn't be able to walk out of the room by his own power. With one last glance towards Francis, he left the room. He wished to gaze at Francis for just a few more seconds but he knew that if he did so he would never be able to turn his back towards the man and leave the room.

"Arthur?" Francis' voice sounded rough and Arthur turned around fast enough for him to see the world turn dark for a moment in front of his eyes.

He could immediately see something was wrong. The way that Francis was sat up in bed seemed unnatural. His arm bent awkwardly to hold up his weight.

"I blame you. It's your fault that I'm dead. If you had've just listened to your instinct and taken me to the hospital when your gut told you to, I wouldn't be dead." His voice was disjointed and the syllables fell out his mouth like a viscous liquid.

Moments after Francis said that Arthur turned around and legged it.

* * *

Arthur jerked awake, his vision blurred as he sat up suddenly in his bed and the blankets pooled around his waist. He tried to calm his breathing and after a while it returned to normal.

He'd just dreamt about what had happened. He had relived nearly every moment of terror that had cascaded over his body in waves and had forced him to be victim to his own mind as it showed him the terrible events that he wished he could forget about.

Arthur didn't want to see Francis in pain again. He didn't want to regret his decision of not calling an ambulance sooner. Never again in his entire life did he want to see the evil machinations of his mind as if pulled Francis back from the dead and forced him to blame Arthur for everything.

And he did blame himself, but he hated his mind for putting words into Francis' mouth. There was no way that Francis would blame him. The man was too good for that. Arthur knew that because Francis had told him last night.

Francis.

He was still alive, albeit a ghost. A cacophony of emotions battled for dominance within Arthur. His hands gripped the duvet and his chest felt tight. Was this how Francis felt? Or was it more painful? Arthur didn't want to think about it. He got out of bed and forced his limbs to cooperate with him even though they felt like they were attached by strings to some puppeteer that had a penchant for setting him up with misery.

Once he got his limbs to listen to him properly he scrambled to the bathroom. His stomach had been threatening to revolt on him for a while now and had finally gone through with it.


	5. Chapter 5

A few days passed since the first appearance of Francis and the successive nightmare. Francis had kept his promise and returned every night and Arthur spoke with him until the night had darkened even further in preparation for sunrise. It was at that point that he yawned every few minutes and struggled to keep his eyes open, and Francis would point out that he should get some sleep or else he'll shuffle through the day like a zombie.

Today, Arthur had to go to work. Last night had been lonely as Francis left him alone to try and get him to fall asleep earlier than usual. That worked, but after staying up so many nights in a row Arthur was forced to gulp down at least three cups of coffee before he even considered himself human.

The numbers swam in front of his vision and he had to squint to make sense of his own writing. His eyes felt heavy and all he wanted to do was to stand up and go home where he could shrug out of his jacket, sprawl on his bed, and get a few hours of sleep.

Arthur couldn't do that, this was his first day back at work in nearly an entire week. He felt grateful towards his boss for allowing him to take an entire week off. Not many people were allowed to do that without some notice. But he insisted and patted Arthur on the back, then told him to stay strong through the tough time he was going through.

He wasn't too sure if would take his leave this year. Usually he liked to take it in late November, when the restaurant Francis worked at hit a lull just before the Christmas rush. For the past three years, Francis' forced him to join him in some exotic place that he would never have visited without the man's incentive. Rainy London suited his tastes much more than France, or Spain, or even Germany, thank you very much.

He gripped his pencil tightly as he crossed another item off of his to-do list. There was still so much left to do. One thing Arthur hated about staying off work was how he would have to catch up. If there was something that he hadn't done during the work day it would be done as soon as he got home over a cup of boiling tea while Francis nagged at him to do something more interesting than to stare at a screen covered with numbers for hours on end.

His lunch hour had come and passed — he had opted to stay at his desk instead of sitting outside for an hour doing nothing. He was still a lot further behind than he had thought he would be at this point in the day. More than once, he had stopped himself from sending a text to Francis to ask whether they had remembered to put the trash out or if the roses that were growing in a small pot on the windowsill had been watered. Neither had been done.

A headache had threatened to descend upon him all day and by the time he left work at five o'clock it had stopped threatening and had hit him with a sledgehammer. He neatened his desk quickly, wanting to get out of the insipid building as soon as possible.

There was still so much for him to do and if he were feeling up to it he would stay an extra hour or two, or until his boss looked upon him with a disapproving look and told him that he needed to get out of the building or he would have to stay dead still to circumvent the security cameras.

Not today though. He double checked that he had everything before leaving. When he got outside he felt the chill in the air and saw the too-long shadows for this time of the day, winter was coming soon and that would mean cold beds and having to get up and make his own tea.

A car pulled up to him and he stared at the rusting doors and hood with disdain. The car was easily recognisable no matter where he went. Alfred and Matthew lived together and since their parents had died they were left with very little money and were forced to share a car. That was better than Arthur could say, he didn't own a car at all.

The window rolled down. "Hello Arthur." Matthew's voice was soft and he smiled gently.

Arthur scratched the back of his neck. "Matthew, are you doing well? What are you doing here anyways?"

"I came here to give you a lift home from work and I brought some takeaway." He gestured towards the paper bag on the passenger seat, bearing the name and logo of Vargas'.

The door was unlocked and Matthew helpfully lifted up the paper bag so that he could sit down before Arthur took it and put it onto his lap. It was still warm and smelled delicious. Arthur couldn't help but open the bag to check and see what was inside.

"I got two meals of the day from Vargas', I'm not sure, but I think it was lasagne today."

That saved Arthur from having to peel up the edges of the foil container up to see what was inside. He hadn't seen, nor talked to Matthew since the funeral when they had taken him home. He didn't remember much from that evening except for crying like a kid in front of them and waking up with a hangover and Alfred incessantly calling him to try and wake him .

"Thank you. I'm sure that they'll be delicious." Arthur held the packet with both of his hands.

Matthew nodded. "You're probably hungry, Francis always complained about how you never brought lunch to work and would come home starving."

"Food in a bag never keeps well, even I know that." Arthur laughed.

"This will be extra nice then. But I'm sure that Feliciano's food will never live up to Francis' mastery of cooking?"

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't know?" Matthew turns on his indicator and the ticking provides a background noise to the car ride. "Francis worked at Vargas' with his cousins, Feliciano and Lovino."

That was embarrassing, Arthur did not know that Francis worked with his cousins. "He always talks about the two brothers that own the place. I was never told that they were his cousins."

"He probably didn't want you to meet them."

"Why doesn't he want me to meet his family? I've let him meet my brothers and I was sure that after that he was willing to stay through me through the apocalypse. Surely I'm not that bad." Arthur could clearly remember the complete pandemonium that had ensured when he and Francis visited his family for Christmas lunch. They'd even taken out the family photo albums _just_ to embarrass him.

"Oh no! Feli and Romano must have heard so much about you from Francis. He never did shut up about you. I think he was more worried about what you thought of them. He told me it was as if crazy ran in his family," Matthew said.

"I don't really care about that. I just don't understand why he let you meet him and the still hasn't let me do that."

"Today I was kissed by four people, three of them I had never met before, and that was before I ordered," Matthew said, a slight fearful tone to his voice.

Arthur winced. He knew how skittish Matthew was around strangers.

"But they're really nice people," Matthew continued, "I just wish that they didn't take their slogan of 'here, everyone's family' so seriously."

"If that's the sort of thing that they think deserves the title of 'family' then I am blessed that Francis hasn't taken me to meet them," Arthur joked.

Matthew laughed. It wasn't long before they reached Francis and Arthur's apartment. If the horizon had been visible he was sure that it would be streaked with reds and oranges. Already everything around them was beginning to darken.

"Let's get inside it's freezing," Arthur said, and put the packet on the roof of the car as he closed the door.

Matthew nodded before walking around the car to join Arthur. The walk to apartment number 14 was short, consisting only of a flight of stairs and a hallway. Arthur fumbled with the key for a moment before getting it into the door and turned the lock. He moved to the side to allow Matthew, who held the paper bag from when Arthur had handed to him so he could use both hands to open the door, to enter in first. Then he followed and made sure to close the door behind him.

The house really was a mess. Unwashed dishes littered the kitchen counter from when Arthur had been too tired to wash them after eating, a layer of dust seemed to have coated everything since he had cleaned only two weeks ago, and the pile of unwashed clothes that he dumped in the corner of the lounge when he decided that it was getting too large to stay in the bathroom shower must have been an eyesore.

"Sorry about the mess. I haven't been in the mood to clean and I'm focusing on getting everything for work sorted out," Arthur said. Hopefully Matthew would take the excuse. In all honesty, Arthur didn't bother about cleaning the areas that he didn't see Francis in, namely everywhere except for the bathroom and his room.

Matthew put the bag down on the counter. "It's fine, you must see the amount of mess that Alfred makes in a week."

"I can imagine. I'll get us knives and forks. Do you want to eat out of the container or would you like a plate?" Arthur opened the drawer and grabbed the utensils.

"I'm sure we can just eat out of the container." Matthew's eyes definitely flicked to the pile of dirty dishes for a moment and Arthur felt ashamed.

"Perfect! Just let me turn on a light so that we can actually see what we're eating," Arthur said. He flicked the light switch and was immediately able to see everything in the room comfortably.

"How about we sit in the lounge?" Arthur asked Matthew.

"Okay." Matthew nodded.

The food was delicious and Arthur had to consciously control the urge to groan out loud at the lasagne. He had never known that pasta could be so flavourful and lively. It was as if he could never get sick of it, each bite an entire new flavour was allowed to surface.

"This is excellent. Francis' family does know how to whip up a mean pasta,"Arthur said inbetween bites.

Matthew finished chewing and swallowed. "They did learn from him, I don't think he would want Feli or Lovino to be any less than perfect at their trade."

"He tried to teach me once—" Arthur took another bite of food and swallowed it— "It didn't turn out too well. We had to get a new toaster and he was upset because he had just learned all the tricks to using it."

"What were you making?"

"Oh, he was trying to teach me how to make toast without burning it and having to scrape off all the charred bits," Arthur admitted.

"But how can you mess up toast? All you have to do is put it in the toaster and push down the button." Matthew had already finished eating and put the container on the table next to a pile of magazines about cooking.

"I don't know! Because no matter how many times I try, it just doesn't work out. I've tried watching it like a hawk and Francis comes down and asks me why I'm watching toast burn. I didn't even smell it."

"Maybe instead of an affinity for cooking it's the opposite with cooking for you. Alfie always struggles to get his computer to work for him, but whenever he tells me what's wrong and tries to show me it works perfectly," Matthew said.

Arthur shook his head. "That, my dear, is a unsolved anomaly of science, not Alfred being a complete idiot." His eyes wandered around the lounge, he hated the bright pictures that Francis insisted on putting on the walls and the large collection of knick knacks that seemed to grow everytime he left the house.

The only place that Francis was not allowed to decorate was the bedroom. Thanks to Arthur it was painted in a neutral cream with plain coloured curtains, and very few items, other than the bed itself. Arthur was a firm believer in having a calm room to help him fall asleep. Francis always defended this with the argument of, 'when the lights are off there's nothing to see'. Arthur then replied with a glare and a thorough explanation on how the hours before bed would also affect his, and Francis', sleep.

"That was good, eh?" Matthew asked.

"It was." Arthur noticed himself scraping the edges of the contained to make sure that he had gotten every drop of the sauce. He put it down. "Pass your container here, I'll put them in the rubbish when I get up next."

"Okay," Matthew said and passed the container to Arthur, then leaned back into the couch, then grabbed a pillow and hugged it tightly against his chest.

Arthur copied Matthew and leaned back, too full to do anything else. He toed off his dress shoes, cursing his work for having such a strict dress code. Matthew was dressed in a comfortable hoodie and jeans, while he was stuck in a suit with a tie and everything. Arthur didn't even know what Matthew did for a living.

"What do you work as again?" Arthur asked. Now that he thought about it, it was kind of weird for Matthew to have picked him up as soon as he'd finished work. He must have been there for a while.

"I work in a bookshop. It's nice, there's even an employee discount on books." Matthew seemed to be quite content about that fact.

"I take it you enjoy working there?" Arthur knew what the answer would be, but he didn't know what else to talk about. Unlike with Francis it was difficult to talk to other people.

Matthew nodded. "It's relaxing and I don't have to talk too much since I'm usually there during the week when it's slow." It was fully dark outside.

"I wish I could give up my job of being an accountant to work in a bookstore." Arthur should probably close the curtains.

"You can always work there during the December rush?" Matthew suggested.

"If only I could. December's when everybody comes crying because they've blown all their savings on a new motorbike or TV, and I have to find the nicest way possible to call them an idiot without offending them."

Even though it wasn't that cold, a shiver travelled down Arthur's spine. It was night time. During the night Francis was with him and right now Arthur was busy having dinner with Matthew.

"It's cold in here, isn't it?" Matthew said. He tugged his sleeves over his wrists and pulled hugged the pillow even more.

It wasn't the cold that was bothering Matthew at all, it was the presence of Francis in the room. Luckily there weren't any mirrors or else Matthew would be surprised when he saw Francis in the reflection.

For a moment Arthur contemplated telling Matthew, he badly wanted to do so. Then he would be able to share his burden. He would be able to explain why he used present tense with Francis instead of past tense. It was obvious that Matthew had picked up on those errors but had chosen not to comment about them, and had most likely chalked it up to Arthur being stressed or something of the sorts.

He opened his mouth on impulse to just say something like 'That's Francis. He's dead but his ghost has been hanging around.' But stopped at the last moment. Arthur wasn't stupid. He knew that Matthew would think of him as crazy man and might not even believe him even if he showed him proof in the mirror.

That was if he could even see Francis.

"It's nearing winter. Maybe it's because it's getting close to night time?" Arthur asked. What if Francis spoke and all that Matthew would hear was the disembodied voice of him? Maybe Arthur could pull it off as an accent? But then, Matthew knew how terrible Arthur was with accents.

"That's probably it." Matthew took his phone and checked the time. "I should probably get going soon, Alfred had to walk home today and he's not going to be pleased. Thanks for having me over on such short notice."

"Thank you for bringing dinner. But I should apologize for having the house in such a state." Arthur wrung his hands, his finger drifted over the raised scar on the back of it.

Matthew shook his head and his hair moved with the action "It's my fault for not warning you beforehand." He put the pillow down next to him and stood up.

"I'm sorry to be leaving so quickly, I didn't realise that it was already so late. Sorry," Matthew apologised again.

"You don't need to say sorry for leaving. I'm sure Alfred's worried, like you said." Arthur picked up the leftover containers and put them on the counter next to the paper bag they had come in, and the dishes he still needed to wash. Tomorrow, he would wake up early to do them.

Matthew started to dig in the bag he had brought with him that Arthur did not even noticed at all during the whole time that he was there. "I nearly forgot. Gilbert gave me these to give to you, and told me to tell you that he's sorry he couldn't come in person but he'll make sure to visit at some point during the week."

Arthur took the Tupperware from Matthew and lifted it up. There were chocolate dipped biscuits. "Tell him I said thank you. Him and his brother always bake amazing thingd."

Matthew smiled. "I'll pass on the second comment as well."

"You don't have do—" Arthur took the lid off— "At least have one before you leave."

"Okay, but then I'll have to leave or else I'll eat them all." Matthew grabbed one and bit into it. He savoured it for a moment before eating the rest.

"Goodbye, Matthew. I'll see you and Alfred soon?" He asked.

"For sure."

Arthur wasn't expecting Matthew to hug him tightly, but he wasn't going to complain either. After the initial moment of shock, he hugged back, still holding the Tupperware in his one hand.

"Arthur?" Matthew asked once they pulled away.

"Yes?"

"Remember that if you ever need help, someone to talk to, or someone to bring over dinner and eat it with you, I'm here. Same with Alfred and Gilbert. I haven't talked to Antonio recently but I'm sure he feels the same way. Please don't forget that you're not alone."

Arthur smiled widely at Matthew. "I won't, I promise." Matthew did care for him. He was also going through a tough time. Matthew had been closer to Francis than he had been to Arthur. Yet he was still going out of his way to be nice to Arthur when he was also in mourning.

The door closed after Matthew left and Arthur was left alone. With Francis.

"Did you really have to breathe down my neck while Matthew was here." Arthur turned on the balls of his socked feet to face where he thought Francis would be.

"You didn't tell me he was coming over or else I would have gotten you to clean up the house a bit. I can't understand what has gotten into you. You always used to keep the house so neat and tidy," Francis said snootily.

"What about the little fact that you _died_ a week ago? And don't try to change the subject. Why were you breathing down my neck?" Arthur crossed his arms and continued scowling.

"I wanted to see Matthew." Was Francis' explanation. "And come on. We're going to clean up this hideous mess you've left even if it takes you all night." Arthur didn't even understand how the whole thing worked. He couldn't see Francis, but he could hear him perfectly well.

Arthur was not pleased with being told what to do by Francis. "I'll do it tomorrow. Right now I'm tired and would prefer to go and sleep for eight so hours, preferably the rest of my existence."

"No," Francis dragged out the word, "You are going to clean now. I am not going to spend the rest of the night watching you fester in your own filth."

"You're worried about a few dishes and some laundry when I could lose my job if I don't manage to get everything done. I was supposed to work this evening, not play entertainer to Matthew, and I refuse to get forced to clean my apartment."

Arthur was worried when Francis took a few moments longer than usual to answer. "Surely you don't feel that way about Matthew. He was meaning well."

"I don't," Arthur ran a hand through his hair, "I'm just annoyed. I'm not in the mood to do anything and I still have to work."

"I'm sure your boss will understand if you don't do everything straight away. I did just die remember?" Francis said.

For a moment Arthur thought about not doing his work and slacking off for one evening in his life, "I can't stand the idea of leaving stuff undone. It irritates me like... you know the feeling of forgetting something? It's like that but worse."

"Then why don't you clean? That's work as well," Francis pointed out.

In the end Arthur didn't end up doing work, but he did end up doing all of the dishes and putting them neatly on the drying rack, as well as starting the laundry. Him and Francis made a compromise about the vacuuming and the rest of the stuff he had to do.

Unfortunately Arthur didn't get to bed as early as he planned to, but he did get to enjoy the magnificence that was Gilbert's baking. While Francis could cook very well, baking wasn't his strong suit, and Arthur suspected it had to do with the lack of freedom and having to follow instructions. Something that was a major character flaw of Francis'

Arthur slept through his alarms the next morning.


	6. Chapter 6

It was domestic, and Arthur didn't like domestic. "I've explained to the florist and the photographer why we had to cancel the wedding and they understood and didn't even charge me."

Francis sighed, "You really are an accountant. Always making sure that you get your money back."

Arthur neatly crossed out 'florist' on the list of people he needed to phone, the phone numbers were neatly written next to each item on the list. "No, I'm not in the mood to go into crippling debt or is that not a good enough of a reason?"

"You don't have to act so prissy, I was just stating the truth," Francis said.

"Hold on," Arthur turned his attention towards the phone he held against his ear, "Hello, this is Arthur Kirkland speaking, I would like to cancel the honeymoon suite booked under the name Francis Bonnefoy… yes, I know that my surname is Bonnefoy… no, we were supposed to get married … erm, he died a few days ago, that's why I haven't called just yet—"

Arthur heard Francis snicker in the background, "So elegant. You really know what to say."

"Just give me a moment. Quiet you moron, you're supposed to be dead! No no, that was one of my cousins. He has a habit of speaking to me while I'm on the phone. Do you think you could give a refund?... Yes I do realise that you aren't able to refund rooms, but this is a different situation." Arthur stayed silent and listened the person on the other side of the line.

"It's a shame, really. Ludwig told me that your hotel was the 'most awesome place ever'... Ludwig? I was talking about Ludwig Beilschmidt, he recommended your place to me and my late fiancé. I don't want to tell him about how you didn't even allow a refund for a man in mourning… So you'll refund me? Excellent. Have a good day." He hung up the phone and let the fake smile fall off his face.

"I take my words back. You brought up Gilbert's younger brother?" Francis asked.

Arthur smirked, "If it weren't for them that hotel would be bankrupt."

Ludwig always used the hotel whenever he was in London for business and Gilbert used to use it when he came to visit Matthew before eventually deciding that it was a good idea to rent a cheap apartment with roommates the he didn't even like. When Ludwig came to London he didn't skimp on his choice of hotel room, and he would visit at least every second month.

"True. I am still amazed that they gave you a full refund when you dropped his name. Most businesses are better than that, and the room we booked was not that cheap." Francis pointed out.

"Would you rather lose one customer or a recurring one that comes at least six times a year, if not more?" Arthur asked. He looked in the mirror in time to see Francis nod.

Francis' hand mirror had been propped up against some books in the lounge, the same ones that Arthur had thrown against the wall in a fit of anger a few days prior, allowing Arthur to see Francis whenever he looked into it.

"And why were you even talking while I was on the phone? You know how much it irritates me when you do that." Arthur was not pleased. He looked at the list and was surprised to find that he just had to call Gilbert — Francis had nagged him to ask him over for dinner so that he could just see him again.

"Maybe that's why I do it. When are you calling Gilbert?" he asked. Francis must have noticed that Gilbert's name was the last one on the list as well.

"I'll call him now. Do you have any idea of what we could eat. You know that with me my only option with guests is to order from a restaurant," Arthur said.

"I could always help you cook step-by-step. It could be like that one movie… _Ratatouille_." Francis offered.

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "There is no chance in hell that I'm letting you sit on my head, even as a ghost. Unlike the rat, you are human sized and will not fit under a chefs hat."

"It wouldn't hurt to try."

Arthur ignored him. "We could always ask him to pick up something from Vargas'. You know, the restaurant that you used to work at along with the entirety of your family."

"How many times do I have to say sorry. It wasn't because of you, it was because of them. I do recommend the spaghetti, Feliciano's gotten good at that one."

"Please stop reusing clichéd breakup lines. You used to be so proud of coming from the grand city of love and rat infestations." He searched up Gilbert's name in his contacts list. "Now shut up. I'm calling Gilbert so you can stand there in silence and cry over him."

Him and Francis had talked about it after Matthew had visited. It probably would be better if Arthur didn't tell anyone that Francis was still around and could only be seen in mirrors while his voice was heard perfectly fine.

"We should get more mirrors, that way you can see my beautiful face wherever you go. It was your choice to not put any in the apartment," Francis said.

Arthur thought about it for a moment. "Do I really want to be seeing more of your ugly mug?"

"Of course you do, darling. Without it I doubt you would have a reason to wake up in the mornings." Francis was correct.

If Francis had been properly dead he would most likely have given up on life. He wouldn't have bothered to cancel all of the wedding arrangements, or talk to the people he grudgingly called friends, or even get out of bed in the mornings. Francis kept him sane by making him go insane in a way.

"I'm calling Gilbert." Arthur said and pressed the green dial button.

After calling Gilbert and asking him if he would like to come over to Arthur's with the promise of free food if he brought it, Arthur was left to wait with Francis until he arrived.

"If you get another mirror then we can go on a proper date, wine and expensive food and everything," Francis said.

"You really want that mirror, don't you?" Arthur asked. He finished packing up all his papers and put them in their respective folders. Organization had always been something that appealed to him and now that the house had been cleaned up, he noticed himself getting back into the same mindset of always being neat and tidy that he had been in before Francis' death.

"I can't handle knowing that you're unable to see me," Francis said dramatically and Arthur would have liked to believe that he was draping himself theatrically over one of the couches, throwing his arms into the air and leaning his head back to look at the ceiling.

"I know you, Francis. If I get a larger mirror will you be happy?" Arthur ground out.

"Oh, yes please! Then you can see all of the clothes I'm able to choose from and we can be like a normal couple once again," Francis said quickly.

Arthur shook his head. "All you want is for me to see you in all your glory."

"When they say that you're taken back to your peak condition in death they weren't lying. I don't think my abs have been so defined since I was twenty."

"You really are a vain man. Before you ask, no, I do not want to see and if you want to somehow have strange voyeuristic sex using a mirror I'll give you your answer right now: Not a chance." Arthur hoped that he had nipped all of those questions in the bud.

"How did you know what I was going to ask that?" Francis asked.

"It was written on your face, you're easy to predict. I'm sure that even a five-year-old, if given enough opportunity, would be able to guess your every action," Arthur explained.

Francis thought for a moment, "And what if I watched you?"

"The answer is no, N-O. You're dead, it's technically necrophilia." Arthur just wanted him to shut up.

After much arguing about what constituted necrophilia or not between them with Arthur being insistent that since Francis' body was six feet under, he was officially dead and anything they did would be counted as that, while Francis just kept reiterating how boring and 'vanilla' Arthur was for not wanting to try anything new.

The ringing of the doorbell startled them both. Arthur stood up and Francis stayed where he was on the couch.

It took forever but Gilbert finally left after eating and cleaning out a good portion of Francis' wine that Arthur hadn't gotten to yet. He made a mental note to buy beer in case Gilbert was ever asked over again.

"Did you really have to spend the entire evening sitting with us?" Arthur asked the moment he thought Gilbert was far enough away from the door.

"I do have a right to see my friends. I'm dead and if you don't ask them over I'll probably never see them again," Francis said.

"As you said, you're dead. That means that you don't have any rights. Unless you want to march on downtown and start shouting to everyone from mirrors, demanding that ghosts deserve rights too." Arthur was tired. He hated socialising with people, the only person that he could stand more than a few hours with was Francis and even then it was tedious.

"You don't have to be so heartless Arthur. I may be dead, but I am still a person," Francis defended.

"A person would never force someone else to do stuff they didn't want to." Arthur sat down heavily on the couch.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," Francis said. "How about I take you out on a date — or we could just stay at the house since I technically can't leave."

Arthur cocked his head to the side. "You mean that you're stuck within the boundaries of our property?"

"I think so. Every time I get close to the outer walls I get this odd feeling that makes me just not want to try leaving. Unless I never want to come back." Arthur could see Francis in the reflection of the mirror, he looked undeniably sad.

"So if you leave that means I'm never going to see you again?" Arthur fidgeted.

"But I'll have to leave eventually. I can't stay here forever, you need to move on." Francis' voice was weak as he spoke. He didn't like the idea at all and neither did Arthur.

"You don't have to leave. You can stay here forever." Arthur tried to make Francis understand that he wanted him to stay.

"I can't, mon cher. If I did you would never move on and it's insane to spend the rest of your life devoted to a mere shadow of the person I used to be," Francis said, sullenly. He used a French nickname, and those were only reserved for when he really wanted Arthur to listen to him.

"But you don't understand—" Arthur was cut off by Francis.

"I do! Do you think I want to leave the person I was ready to spend the rest of my life with barely even a week after our wedding. It pains me to think that one day you're going to move on. Your memories with me are going to be tainted with dust and, the once vivid image you had of me will eventually fade to black and white, and years down the line you will be wondering if my eyes were blue or green. I don't want to leave, but I have to. I have to." Francis' control of his voice slipped on the last word.

"Sea blue. I don't think I'd ever forget your eyes, they remind me of trips to the beach when I was a kid. The entire year was spent waiting for one stupid day. Whenever I look into your eyes I get reminded of those days and then I remember how often we used to do stupid things and how much fun I had even if I seemed to be hating it," Arthur admitted.

"Arthur," he breathed out.

"And forgetting you." Arthur swallowed. "Forgetting you would be like forgetting how to breathe. I would never want to give up the happiest days of my life for some bloke that can barely tell the difference between 'they', 'their' and 'they're'. Not that you can either, but I'm trying to be poetic here and it's just not working out and I wish I could just have one more day with you. Just so I could hold your hand one more time and feel its warmth. So I can smell your disgusting garlic breath and have to endure your habit of leaving the toilet seat up."

"I love you too," Francis replied.

Arthur's demeanor changed. "Surely you can come up with something a bit better than 'I love you'? You are supposed to be the poetic one here. Likening my eyes to drops of dew on the grass in the morning and my eyebrows to the most delicate of caterpillars." Arthur laughed, not enough to form tears, but they were still there in the corners of his eyes.

"I'm sorry for not being able to create a magnificent masterpiece that would bring tears to everyone's eyes." Francis' retort held venom.

"You succeeded well enough. You just had to go all sappy." He used the palm of his hand to wipe his eyes.

"Are you still up for that date?" Francis asked, his voice back to its original pitch.

Arthur considered it. "You could say that you twisted my arm. When do you want it?"

"I was thinking the last day of October?" Francis asked.

"That would be—" Arthur did a calculation in his head— "Next week Tuesday, a work week."

"Don't you want the fun of a date on Halloween?" Francis purred.

"We are not dressing up. What you dressed up as last year is still burned into my retinas." Arthur blinked to clear away the mental image of yellow glitter and bananas.

"At least we were memorable." There was pride in Francis' voice. "Didn't Alfred say he still has nightmares?"

He didn't have very good memories of that evening. From what he could recall of that evening at least. The last thing he could remember was a group photo that he was not proud of and Francis insisting that Arthur should find a matching costume for his. Arthur was not very into fruit themed clothing and declined as politely as he could to Francis.

"He was joking. People usually over-exaggerate when they do that." Arthur stood.

"I wasn't talking about what you wore on Halloween," Francis said.

Arthur growled, "Don't insult me— you wanted to go to that infernal party. Why do you want to want to do it on Halloween anyways?"

"You really haven't figured it out yet?" Francis said, exasperated.

"Halloween of all days… That's when they say the veil between the spirit world and our world is thinnest," Arthur mused.

"And you've been complaining about my presence getting colder everyday and that's why. At least that's what my ghost gut is telling me," Francis said.

"Your ghost gut? That is the most uninventive thing that I've ever heard."

"But the alliteration." Francis sounded pained.

Arthur started towards their bedroom, "Alliteration does not make everything better. Only children's stories and poetry."


	7. Chapter 7

"I've been worried about your performance as of late, Mr Kirkland," Arthur's boss said.

Arthur sat straight-backed with his hands neatly fold in his lap. "I apologise, sir, I explained that my fiance has just died and I will make sure that I've caught up on everything by the end of the week."

"I don't want any of this nonsense about catching up your work. Mr Kirkland — Arthur, you are my best employee and even when you're handing in subpar work you're still above average. What I'm worried about is you. You're not the kind of person to slack off."

"I'm sorry. As I've told you I've been a bit stressed these past few days. By the end of the week I'll be back to normal." Arthur grinned and hoped that his boss would stop questioning him. The man was very kind but he just couldn't shake off the unease he felt when around him.

"You've said that already. I would love to offer you more leave but unfortunately we need you here more than you think." He took a sip from the styrofoam cup that his assistant had brought in a few minutes ago.

"Thank you, sir," Arthur was pretty sure that was a compliment, "But could you please tell me why you called me to your office?"

The man laughed, it was unsettling to Arthur, and then spoke, "I want to know how you're doing. I have asked you, yes?"

"You have, but why?" Arthur felt like he was getting nowhere.

Amusement was an emotion he could clearly see on his boss' face, "You've worked here for how many years? Three? Four?"

"Five." Arthur had gotten his job straight out of school and had been lucky to have gotten an internship that taught him everything he needed to know without going to university. His attitude towards work helped his career success as well.

His boss continued, "And during those years you have not once caused any issues and you have always put in your best. I just would like you to know that you are very important here, but if you feel it necessary to take a break for a while to sort out everything I'm not going to refuse, you've changed, and it pains me to see you so sad. Mr Bonnefoy, you loved him a lot?"

Arthur pressed his lips together. "I love him so much that it's painful. I don't think I'll ever stop loving him." He averted his eyes from his boss' piercing gaze.

"I am sorry for your loss, Mr Kirkland. It is not often that that a person finds someone they feel so strongly for. I do hope that the pain lessens for you over time," his boss said.

"I hope so too," Arthur said and met his boss' gaze. He wished that he could let Francis lie in peace in his varnished coffin with the words of his eulogy floating around him as he lay there for eternity, the handful of dirt Arthur once clung to pushing against the wooden lid. Not spend his nights talking to Francis' reflection in a mirror. His shoulders tightened and pulled them back more. He should be able to move on, not cling to his past. Arthur yearned to be able to let Francis go, like the handful of dirt.

"Did I upset you?" his boss asked.

"You didn't." Arthur didn't know what else to say. No excuse other than the truth would suffice.

"I should let you go," his boss made a show of checking his watch, "Your lunch hour is nearly over. Please try to get some sleep when you get home, Mr. Kirkland. You look dead on your feet."

"I will, sir."

Arthur wasn't going to sleep tonight and he knew it. It was the day of his and Francis' date, October 31st. He spent a large portion of his evening with anger in his eyes as he threatened the clock to move faster without using words.

* * *

Numerous mirrors lined the aisle that Arthur stood in and every single one reflected his pipe cleaner eyebrows and the bags under his eyes in more detail than he deemed necessary. Mirrors were more expensive than he estimated.

Arthur eyed out a rather large one, it stretched from a short way off the floor and just barely grazed the ceiling. It would take up a fair bit of wall space in his living room and he would have to get rid of a few paintings Francis forced upon him, but in the end it would be worth it.

Francis would to enjoy the boost to his already hot balloon-sized ego. Being able to see Francis without turning the man's pathetic mirror in this and that way had been a major contributing factor to his decision. The price tag made him want to say 'no' and then repeat it a few times for emphasis before he walked out of the shop empty handed. He would have to get it delivered to his house. He hated delivery men, they were always so rough with the items they delivered.

He shook his head and decided that he would buy the inordinately expensive mirror, to make Francis happy. When Francis was happy, he was happy.

* * *

"You've really gone all out Arthur, you bought roses, ingredients to make food with, and a mirror. I'm flattered." Francis beamed.

"Don't think I'll buy you another mirror, it was too expensive for my taste." Arthur couldn't help but stare at his dead fiance. He wasn't wearing his wedding suit that Arthur saw when Francis had first pitched up, but something a lot more expensive looking that was not within their price range.

"Do you enjoy what you see? It's one of the perks of no longer breathing. I can choose to wear anything I want to." Francis turned around and Arthur couldn't help but let his eyes get drawn along the lines of the suit. Very fine indeed.

"It's okay. Only you would choose something so showy." Arthur looked at himself and Francis. In the mirror they looked like a couple ready to go on a date. He held flowers, his grip strong enough to break the stems and his smile looked forced. Francis stood next to him, back slouched and hands in his pockets, he was the epitome of relaxed.

Arthur put the bouquet down on the table. "Why don't we get started on supper? You can shout over my shoulder and make me panic as much as you want to."

"That is an excellent idea." Francis followed Arthur to the kitchen. "Is that eggs and bacon? You are not making breakfast foods for dinner. Have I not taught you anything?"

"Not really no. I was just thinking that it would be a good idea to make something that I have some experience with," Arthur explained. Now that they were out of the lounge, it was impossible to see Francis unless he wanted to strain himself to peer into the mirror he had bought that day to try and see a glimpse of Francis' back whilst he stood at the stove.

"What would you like to start with?" Francis asked. At least he agreed with Arthur's point of view.

"Err, I don't really know. I was hoping that you could help with that. What about the bacon? It takes the longest time to cook." Arthur held up the package between his index finger and thumb. He had never been one for handling raw meat.

"I'm glad to see you have learned something from your experiments in the kitchen."

"Yet you still ate what I made for breakfast without complaining." Arthur said.

"I was surprised that I didn't die from food poisoning before," Francis mused. "It's amazing what the English come up with. Baked beans on toast, chips on toast, bread on toast—"

Arthur interrupted Francis, "It's toast on bread. Besides, it's not my fault that my country had so called boring ideas when it comes to a good meal. At least it fills you up, unlike the French. Where they slap a large price on half an egg drizzled with a fancy sauce and call it a meal."

"I wonder what will come next, breakfast on toast?" Francis continued.

"The brekkie bun is an Australian creation actually," Arthur corrected.

"Let's just start instead of bickering like old women, I would prefer it if we could get your idea of a romantic meal over and done with. First you need to turn on the oven. You must make sure that the dial you're turning is the correct one." Francis spoke as if he were talking to a young child.

"I don't appreciate it when you treat me like I don't ever cook. All I want you here for it to make sure that nothing gets burned, set on fire or broken." Arthur dug in the drawer until he found the scissors.

"Name one time that you haven't cremated a meal beyond recognition."

It took a while but Arthur finally managed to think of something. "The time with the mini sausage rolls that were on discount."

"You managed to burn them while they were still cold on the inside. Francis didn't accept that occasion it seemed.

"But you said 'beyond recognition'. They were still sausage rolls."

"And you still ate them despite the charring on the sides. That was disgusting. No — don't put it in the pan. Do you really want to have to scrape the bacon off?"

"Sorry, " he said sarcastically. "You don't have to bite my head off just a simple. 'Don't forgeet zee oil Arzur!' would be fine enough."

"You don't have to mock my accent or would you like me to go at yours? The oil is in the cupboard next to the fridge, bottom row," Francis said.

Arthur got the oil. So far he hadn't done anything too disastrous and the oven had been on the entire time. His cooking wasn't that bad, he just had a skewed perception of when things were cooked he and preferred his food to be on the cooked side rather than the raw side.

"That is not how you make toast," Francis said and a distorted image of his face appeared on the toaster.

"Why are you one the toaster?" Arthur did not shriek, because shrieking was for sissies and Arthur was not a sissy. He was a manly man that didn't shriek when people suddenly appeared on his toaster, except for when he wasn't expecting it. Like now.

"It is a reflection, no?" Francis asked.

"That's it." Determination coloured Arthur's voice. "I'm throwing the toaster away and getting new one. Preferably one without a reflective surface for you to put your face on."

"And you were making so much progress, the toast was only slightly burned this time," Francis said.

"That was because I panicked and pulled the plug out the wall when I saw your face on it." Arthur held the plug in his hand, the end swinging gently before he put it back into the wall socket.

The plate of food looked acceptable. At least the only burned thing on it was the toast. That was pretty good going in Arthur's opinion.

"Do you really have to drink the most expensive bottle?" Francis asked. He stood while Arthur sat and for a moment Arthur wanted to offer Francis a seat.

"Well you can't stop me." Arthur's shoulder lifted slightly to resemble a shrug.

Francis was agitate., "And that's what makes me worried. You could finish the entire bottle and that would be the end of it."

"Why have an entire fridge full of alcohol if you aren't going to drink it?" It was typical of Francis to own a fridge specifically made for wine. Arthur didn't understand why one needed various controls for temperature and specially made wire racks for storage. Last time he checked wine was stored outside of a fridge. Not that he knew all that much about wine other than how it had a much lower alcohol content than he wanted.

"I still don't know how you managed to find the key," Francis said.

"Like I've told you many times before, you predictable." Arthur smirked.

Francis' lips pursed. "Just do not drink all of it in one night or I will force you to buy a replacement and you won't be allowed to drink that one."

"That's unfair." Arthur decided to uncork the bottle, even though he hadn't started eating yet, and poured it to the brim of his glass.

Francis looked uncomfortable. "You barbarian. You know that you must never fill your wine glass to the top."

"I do." He took a sip of the wine, careful not to spill any on the white tablecloth he had put on their dining table.

The dining room was small and the table reflected that, it was meant to squeeze in six people and no more. The mirror in the lounge reflected his setup, albeit with Francis in the image. All the speak of mirrors making a room larger was true and the dining room seemed to blend into the lounge and stretch onwards.

For a few moments Francis seemed unwilling to speak. "I don't like how easily I've gotten used to not having a body. At least I'm glad that I don't have to worry about smelling that monstrosity that you're feeling up with your eyes." Francis said. He watched Arthur intently as he cut a few mouthfuls of food and ate them slowly.

Arthur pushed his plate away. "I'm not in the mood to eat anymore. You've managed to put me off."

Francis smirked. "It will save you from my fate for a few more years than if you had eaten it."

"Do you always have to insult my cooking?" Arthur asked.

"Why of course. I just love it when your ears go red and you become all shy."

It was true. Arthur could feel the tips of his ears heating up. He didn't like it at all. He put the wine glass down and leaned forward.

"That does make you a bully — making fun of someone to get a rise out of them." Arthur stared at Francis.

"This is true, but don't tell me you aren't the same. I can bring up plenty of examples where you have insulted my absolute perfection," Francis said.

"Touche." Arthur leaned back. He felt uncomfortable staring into his own reflection as Francis sat by his side. It wasn't right.

"There's something wrong," Francis stated.

There was nothing for Arthur to do except agree. "Why are we stuck like this? You're so close and yet so far away." He placed a hand on the mirror and kept it there before letting it drop. Condensation had gathered around it and after that faded away there was a definite hand shaped mark left on the mirror.

"I do not know. Maybe it was Fate. She could want us to test our love in different ways." Francis lifted a hand up and put it against the mark that Arthur had left. His fingers were longer than Arthur's own, though Arthur's were wider.

There was a soft smile on Francis' face, and Arthur couldn't help but smile back. "It could be. But why test us when there are so many other people?"

"Fate is a curious thing. Have you ever heard of the red string of fate?" Francis let his hand slip downwards and drop to his side.

Arthur racked his brain. "They're like soulmates, aren't they?" He wasn't too sure.

"I'll explain. According to Chinese legend there is a god in charge of matchmaking and what this god does, is he ties a red string to the ankles of the people that are fated for each other. And the beauty of it is that this string is allowed to stretch, and it is allowed to tangle, but it will never break," Francis explained.

"That's poetic. I wonder how they came up with something like that?"

"I don't know. What I want to ask you is do you believe in something like that. Do you believe that two people are destined to be together? Well before they've even met?" Francis asked.

Arthur looked down. "I used to believe that love is a choice. That it was a conscious decision to say that you're going to overlook all the negative traits that a person has and instead only focus on the good things."

Francis hummed. "You said 'used to' what changed that?"

"I'm not too sure," Arthur lied. He knew exactly when his view changed. "But now I think that love isn't a choice. In my life there has only been one person that I've ever loved and until I met him I didn't understand what true love was. True love is when you can look at a person and everything that they've done wrong and still say 'I love you' to them."

"And who might this person be?" And now he was fishing for compliments.

Arthur would be damned before he let Francis have it so easy, "Isn't it obvious. I'm talking about my cat that I used to have when I was twelve."

"Are you telling the truth?" Francis looked worried.

"Of course I'm not. Sure I did love Crumpet, but I wasn't in love with him. That is wrong in more ways than one. I was talking about you, you idiot," Arthur said.

"That was very romantic indeed. Why don't you just eat your burned toast." The sarcasm in Francis' voice was palpable.

Arthur narrowed his eyes, "I can't help it if I'm a naturally unromantic person. You have to admit you set yourself up for it, begging for me to say that it was you while I looked into your eyes and fluttered my long lashes."

"I don't beg for you to say that you love me. I would like it if you said it a bit more but you are a sour old man that is set in his ways," Francis said.

"I am not set in my ways."

There was no way that Arthur could be. His priorities had changed since the funeral. No longer did he have the same passion for achievement within his career, willing to sink to the bottom of the pond and spend more time with Francis than to give up one moment with him.

"You are Arthur, let's not argue about that as well. How about some dancing? I spent years teaching you to tell your left from your right, letting it go to waste would not be smart." Francis suggested.

"How are we going to dance if you're within the mirror?" Arthur was grateful for the change of subject and if it got him away from the table he no longer wished to sit at he would be even happier.

"We will have to try. Nothing too complicated, but I'm sure we can figure out something."

Arthur shot a smile in Francis' direction. He enjoyed dancing with Francis, even as terrible as he was.

"Do you have any idea of what music you would like?" Arthur already had his phone out of his pocket. Two messages and a missed call from Alfred. He ignored him and unlocked his phone.

"Google something long. I don't want to be stopping to change the song every few minutes."

The tones of the piano filled the air, slow and heavy, and Arthur found himself smiling nervously. He could recognise the piece within a few notes, Richard Clayderman. His mother was a fan of his works and would often put the record into the worn record player and play the songs.

"How are we going to do this?" Arthur asked. He stared into the mirror. Francis stood by his side, hands in the air, unsure where to put them.

"We'll have to stand sideways so that we can still see each other. Yes, now lift your arm up and put it near my shoulder. Hold it up, you don't want it in my shoulder, do you? Now I'll put my hand here and I want you to put your hand against mine," Francis explained. The song continued to play in the background.

"Like this?" Arthur double checked.

"Yes. Now I'm leading remember so you'll have to follow me," Francis said.

"Why are you leading?" Arthur didn't like how Francis assumed that he would lead and Arthur would follow him.

"It's because I actually know how to dance. Or would you like to waltz right through me and into a wall?" Francis asked,

It had taken a few tries but Arthur had reminded himself of the rhythm he should be moving it. It did take Francis counting out the steps for the first few minutes but he had gotten it and it was once again subconscious as he focused on not going through Francis.

He stared into the mirror and it was like looking into the engagement photo that was sitting on the table next to the smallest couch, glass still missing. Arthur's face was flushed and his heart pumped in his ears. A smile adorned his face, different to the one in the photo. Even he could see the underlying sorrow.

It lifted his entire face upwards until his eyes. They stayed still, and stared into the mirror. After a few moments he had to avert his eyes and instead chose to look at Francis. He looked serene as moonlight shone through the window and it made his glowing eyes seem like a trick played by the light. Though it wasn't.

Francis was still dead and Arthur was unable to touch him and other than a chill to the air and the reflection in the mirror, he didn't exist in that moment. The music changed, something slightly faster and they still kept the same speed. The notes danced with them and Arthur found himself staring once again into Francis' face.

His blond hair framed his face wonderfully, the curls softening his angular nose and his eyes were drawn to Francis' once more. It was unsettling to see someone's eyes glow, but over the past few days he had gotten used to it.

Arthur wanted to let his imaginary grip on Francis tighten, but found himself unable to do so unless he wanted to see the jarring sight of his hand resting within Francis. The idea made him feel nauseous and he pulled his attention away from that once again.

"I think I'm having a good time," Arthur said.

"I wish that I was with you to enjoy it."

Arthur cocked his head, "Are you not enjoying this evening?"

"I don't know. I am, but not being able to be able to feel you, to be with you is ruining it for me." Francis shifted and Arthur moved to compensate.

"I'm sorry."

Francis laughed, "The once time you don't have to say sorry you do. It's not your fault that we are in this situation and if you ask me, I would rather be stuck with this frustration as I dance with you than to never be able to see you again."

Arthur was happy. Around him, everything threatened to fall apart. But in this one moment he was proud to admit that nothing bothered him other than the music and being with Francis. Earlier that evening they had spoken of love and he still couldn't find the courage to voice the words he wanted to so badly.

There was a difference between saying 'I love you' to a coffin and implying it someone and and actually saying it to someone. Arthur wished that Francis hadn't been taken from him like he had before he gained to courage to say that he loved Francis over and over again until he was blue in the face. They were just three small words.

He laughed. "I can't believe that we're doing this."

"Doing what?" Francis asked.

"Pretending that we're normal. This sort of thing is not normal. We aren't supposed to live like this," Arthur rambled.

"What do you mean by that, you're being unclear?"

"What we are at this moment. What we've been since you died, it's unnatural." Arthur longed to have the last glass of wine that was still in the bottle. He would save it for another day.

"We can live through it day by day though," Francis said and they continued to dance until Arthur's feet were hurting and it was well past the evening and into the morning.


End file.
